In Essence Divided
by bagheera
Summary: postOtP AU. A plotty story about Tom Riddle, his transformation into Voldemort, a benevolent conspiracy and Harry trying to rescue Sirius behind the Veil. Is there more to the connection between Tom and Harry? Complete.
1. Prologue : Love

In Essence Divided

**Spoilers** : All books including OotP

**Characters**: Harry, Tom Riddle, RonHermione, Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore, Mr. Ollivander, Voldemort, Sirius and Sirius' uncle Alphard.

**Summary**: Tom Riddle's descend into darkness, Harry's journey behind the Veil, Sirius' death, the secret of the Dark Lord's existence and the key to vanquishing him - some people have it all planned, and they're not Albus Dumbledore.

This work is almost complete and will have more than30 chapters.

**RR very much appreciated**.

* * *

**Prologue : Love**

Fall 1932 , London

Stark black shadows were thrown on the leaf-littered ground by sunlight and a beech tree. It was October, cold and clam, but with a bright and clear sun in the sky. The leaves were tumbling freely, leaving empty holes in the trees' crowns and spots and dots of yellow and brown on the muddy ground.

Children were huddling and running noisily on that ground, up to 30 maybe, clad in dirty and worn clothes but never real rags. Some looked wild and underfed and unkempt, like they had been gathered from the streets themselves, while others looked groomed and tidy but still pale and poor, like they had been living in this chilling place for too long but were still trying to keep up a semblance of order.

They were boys and girls. They slept and ate in different wings of the brickstone buildings, but they played and learned together. Their age ranged from toddlers to children of fourteen and fifteen. There were a few older ones, too, but they were inside now, studying. These children were not all orphans, some still had parents somewhere out there, some stayed here only for a limited time, until their parents could afford to fetch them again. Others had lost their parents in the World War a few years ago and yet other had been a abused and neglected in their homes.

A group of the little children had gathered around the dark stem of a tree and a tattered and rusty old swing. The oldest and therefore the leader of them sat in the swing, a grubby-faced child of eight years, wearing a brown cap. At his feet, two boys squatted, carefully avoiding the mud, for they knew the consequences of getting yourself dirty already well for their tender age. Another boy with a shock of red hair stood by the tree, with him his sister in a faded dress.

The last boy was the smallest, he was no older than five, and simply stood in front of them. He had dark hair and eyes, and his face was bathed in the shadow of the tree, but soon the sun would advance and the shadow would travel further east, so that his little face would be illuminated.

"But there _are _nice nurses," the little girl just insisted, her name was Fanny.

"No, there aren't," the boy on the swing, named Anthony, replied with the complete arrogance only a child can muster when it talks to a younger child and thinks it knows better.

"There are! Nurse Emily is always nice to me!" the girl stubbornly insisted.

"Most of them are mean," one of the boys at Anthony's feet injected lazily.

"No," Anthony said, fully convinced of himself and his importance. "They all are. Some of them may seem nice, but they aren't really. They don't really like us. We're just orphans. Nobody _really _loves you."

"My parents did!" Fanny yelled and stomped on of her small feet on the ground. Her brother nodded slightly in agreement.

The smallest boy just stood there and listened. He hadn't said a word and wouldn't do it. He rarely ever did. Now, the sun had reached his face. The cold light of fall blinded him mercilessly.

'Did my parents love me?' Tom Riddle asked himself, for the first time in his life.

TBC


	2. On A Plain

A/N: Some of the things Harry writes in these letters may seem unforgivably stupid. But there is a reason for it! It's not OOC ;)

* * *

Chapter One : On A Plain

"_Dear Hermione, _

_Thank you for your last letter. I'm feeling fine, the Dursleys are ... the Dursleys. I think Moody and the others scared them. _

_Hermione, there is really nothing to worry about. It's my business. _

_Greets, _

_Harry._"

"_Dear Harry,_

_You're completely right, Harry. It is your business. It was your business in first year that Voldemort wanted the Philosopher's Stone. It was your business that Tom Riddle kidnapped Ginny. It was your business to rescue Sirius in third year. It was your business to complete the three tasks. It was completely your business to go after Sirius in the Ministry. _

_Harry! When did I ever care if anything was your business? It is our business, it always was. That's what friends are for. Please don't forget that. And stop denying ... everything. _

_Then there's something else. I had an exciting thought last night and I looked it up instantly, but I couldn't find it anywhere in the books. I wish I had a book about the Ministry. Maybe you could try and look it up in your Divination book?_

_Anyway : Do you remember what was written on the Prophecy when we found it? _

'S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter'

_Now, I really couldn't make anything out of those many letters at the beginning, but yesterday it came to me! A.P.W.B.D. , that's almost certainly Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! (You can look up the names in 'Hogwarts, a history'.) But why would Dumbledore be written on it? Well, because S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. means that S.P.T. made the prophecy to Professor Dumbledore. _

_That means he knows its contents!_

_What do you think about it?_

_Yours, _

_Hermione_."

"_Hermione, _

_You'd like it to be your business? _

_You're right. It was prophesied to Dumbledore, by Trelawney. I already knew this. He told me after the fight. In his study. He showed me his memories of the prophecy. It is about me and Voldemort._

_It says that in July the year I was born, a child would be born to people who have thrice defied him and that this child would be able to destroy Voldemort. Then it said Voldemort would 'mark the child as his equal' and that the child and Voldemort must kill each other, because none can live while the other survives. And that the child would have some kind of power which Voldemort has not. _

_The child, though, could have been me – or Neville. But Dumbledore says that by trying to kill me, Voldemort marked me, so it is me. Well, the rest is pretty much clear. I have to kill him or he will kill me. _Guess I really have a fat chance, huh? _Also, because Voldemort heard the first part of the prophecy, he came to kill my parents and me. _

_So you see : this time it is pretty much my business. You can't handle it. Only I can. Only I could all the time! I had no choice. Because I'm marked his equal! Isn't that just wonderful? It wasn't just bad luck from the start. It was fate. _

_Harry._"

With a shocked hiss, Hermione nearly let the parchment drop to her feet. Harry's last words would have hurt her, if not for the folly she immediately realised.

Harry had told her to whole prophecy in A LETTER. A letter which could easily be intercepted by anyone. It was almost like plastering big posters with the text of the prophecy everywhere on the wall at Diagon Alley.

And what it said, that prophecy! That Voldemort had to kill Harry. Which he wanted anyway, but knowing this, he would want it twice as much.

With shaking fingers she gingerly laid the letter onto the brown plaid blanket on her bed and looked at Hedwig, who was waiting patiently for the return letter.

"What should I do?" she whispered. Should she try to find out whether the letter had actually been intercepted? Like all owl post it looked a little worn. Hedwig herself didn't look troubled at all. She probably should be able to find a spell somewhere to find out, but that would take its time – time she didn't have – and would be illegal as she was still an underage witch. She remembered Harry's trial well.

She might write to Dumbledore, or anybody else of the Order. Or she could write back to Harry, telling him how stupid that had been – maybe a little more diplomatically – and to look for cover. But where? He should be safe where he was, shouldn't he?

So she should probably warn the Order.

But that meant that she would invade Harry's privacy, that she would embarrass him and would surely make him feel like things were decided above his head again. She gnawed her lip frantically.

But she had to. She simply had to. She would never be able to forgive herself if she didn't warn Dumbledore and something bad happened.

_A small figure walked over a plain of endless white, under a sky of infinite black. Lost and tiny in the snow, blurred and distorted now and then, it still walked straight to the edge of an endless abyss. Down there were a myriad of darkest waves in a bottomless ocean, down, there were the souls of the lost ones. _

_Upon reaching the abyss, the figure stopped. It was a young man, thin and small and dark. In his hands, clothed in black rags, he carried something as if it were his own child, his heart and soul : a small, infinitely bright light. _

_His face was illuminated by the light so brightly that its features couldn't be discerned, but then he looked up for a small instant, and green eyes searched the stars above him._

Harry woke with a start, panting and cold. He had never seen himself in a dream before so clearly. Mostly, he was the actor, the protagonist of his own dreams, or the subject of his dreams was Voldemort. But he had never before looked into his own eyes in a dream.

Even though it was July, goosebumps shivered down his sweaty limbs. He untangled himself from the sheets. Harry had learned that dreams can mean a lot and nowadays he was often asking himself what they meant. Whenever they were visions from Voldemort, he could discern them by the pain in his scar, the searing hotness of something that was close to bursting.

He had dreamt of himself on a plain covered in snow, and a huge cliff above an ocean. What had been that ocean? It had looked like thousands of dusky shadows, black and ghostlike, and in his dream he had just known that they were the souls of the dead. But he had been holding a white light, and somehow he had the feeling that this was a soul, too.

He looked around the twilight of his room. The yellow street lights from Privet Drive almost completely illuminated it, so that it rarely ever became truly dark. Harry resented this ever since he had come to know the stars of a velvety night sky sprinkled with stars and crowned with a pure moon as it spread over Hogwarts at night. Hedwig was still away.

Harry had sent her to Hermione this morning, with a letter in which he told her the truth about the prophecy. It felt good to know that it was out of his hands now... and thinking that thought he nearly bit his own tongue off.

He had written down the prophecy in a LETTER! How could he ever have been so stupid! Voldemort had gone through all that work just to get it, and now Harry sent it away with a letter? He could have hit himself. He couldn't call it back now, he could only hope that his letters wouldn't be intercepted.

For once, he couldn't deny that it was his fault, and his alone. Why hadn't he realised it this morning? He just couldn't understand himself. There was no Snape, no Dumbledore to blame. He rubbed his hot forehead and hated himself for being so impulsive. If he hadn't been so impulsive, Sirius might still be alive. If, if, if. Everyday he found new ways how Sirius could have stayed alive.

If Voldemort got this letter, he would know that the only thing he had to do was to kill Harry. Actually, Harry thought, this didn't change a lot. Voldemort wanted to kill him anyway, didn't he? And he was save at the Dursleys. But why then had Dumbledore undergone all the procedures to keep the prophecy from Lord Voldemort? Was it about the power Harry should possess which Voldemort didn't possess?

Slowly, Harry dived back into his dream reality. And suddenly he knew it! He had been behind the veil! He was behind the veil, in the land of the dead, and he was carry a soul. Whose soul? Whose soul could it be?

"Sirius," he whispered into the night, and with unnoticed tears on his cheeks he fell asleep.


	3. The Madwoman's Son

**Chapter Three : The Madwoman's Son**

July, 1937

Hogwarts Deputy Mistress and Charms teacher Hester O'Hare had the feeling that this would be one hard job to do. Since the beginning days of Hogwarts, dealing with muggleborn children and their parents had been a problem.

It was the summer of 1937 and she was standing in front of the Stockwell Orphanage in London. Hester, who was a middle-aged witch, could remember the dreadful nineteenth century Muggle orphanages, and was pleased to see that this place was actually very fine in comparison. Several Victorian houses, grouped around a yard, looking clean and well-kept made up the orphanage. It had a boys and a girls house, a Sunday school and enough place to play. The children wore individual clothes and didn't look too depressed.

The reason for her being here was an orphan named Tom Riddle. Like all wizard children, his birth had been written down in a book. This book resided in a small and secret chamber in Hogwarts. It had been created by the founders themselves, just like the Sorting Hat and the four houses. A magical quill wrote down the name of every wizard child in Britain at its birth. When the child died before his or her eleventh birthday, it was written down, and wizard children moving to Britain were noted, too.

This book never stopped working, and it couldn't be fooled. Once in a year, the current Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster looked up all the names and prepared the letters they would send this year. Every wizard child, whether they were poor beggars or members of the gentry, had the right to attend Hogwarts. If the parents could afford it, they had to pay a small fee, but for everyone else, Hogwarts was free, raising its funds from the school board and the ministry.

So money wasn't a problem, and reading and writing wouldn't be, either, as the orphanage had a school. But what made Hester worry was the boy himself. What would his character be like, having grown up in an orphanage? How would the other orphans react to one of them being able to go away to a boarding school?

And there was also the fact, that he wasn't really an orphan. His father was still alive. And the boy didn't know this. She entered the building and a nurse showed her the way to the office of the Headmaster. She braced herself and stepped inside.

About two hours later, she left it again, feeling drained and shaken. During the talk, the matron of the dorm Tom Riddle lived in had been called inside, and they had argued fervently. She walked down the creaking wooden stairs and replayed the conversation in her mind.

While the Headmaster of Stockwell himself was rather easily convinced that _magic_ existed, it took him a while to believe in _Hogwarts_ and the fact that one of the Stockwell boys should indeed go there. The matron had been called in, and soon they had been looking up papers together. What came to their eyes was a tale of misery.

The boy, as had been written in the book, was born in 1927, to a woman who had been rejected by her husband. The young man had, in order to annul the marriage, sent her to Bethlehem Hospital, a hospital for the treatment of the insane. This infamous institution, commonly called 'Bedlam', was renowned for being the worst of all hospitals for the insane in Britain and everywhere over Europe. The doctors there indeed diagnosed a severe case of delusions. The few remaining documents revealed that the mother, a pregnant witch, had insisted on being exactly that, a witch.

It was heart-wrenching for Hester O'Hare to read what happened after that. The Bethlehem Hospital documents told that the woman was treated as insane all during her pregnancy, and then died while giving birth to the child, due to the stress and bad hygienic conditions. She wondered why the witch hadn't simply employed magic to leave. What about her family? The family of the father, who had been paying for the mother, wouldn't accept the child, but continued paying for it. Still, the child was named after the father and grandfather : Tom Marvolo Riddle.

What to do with a newly born child in a hospital for the insane? In the beginning, the child was nurtured by a nurse, who was herself a woman admitted to the Institute. But the woman could be cured and left the child behind when she left the hospital. Little Tom, by then almost a year old, couldn't be given to a proper Orphanage – he was too young – and no one wanted a child from Bethlehem institute. So he stayed there for two more years, and maybe a normal child wouldn't have survived this, but it was reported that he had an extremely strong health.

In 1930, the Bedlam institution, renowned for its terrible treatment of the insane, was finally shut down. The child, with his three years actually yet too young, was accepted at Stockwell Orphanage.

From then on, the Headmaster and Hester followed the account of the matron. She told them of a 'poor dear confused little fellow'. He was very scared of everybody, and didn't play at all like a normal child. But he was never causing any trouble once he had found his place, and he was very bright despite his bad upbringing.

He – being the youngest child in Stockwell - was the favourite of many nurses and teachers, but the other boys at Stockwell didn't like him nearly as much. Tom was the constant victim of mockery and cruel insults because of his 'insane' mother. That, combined with the fact that he lacked self confidence and was younger and weaker than the other boys, made life difficult for him.

"You can't do that," the matron closed her tale. "You can't take him out of here, not if you plan to send him back! The other boys won't accept that. And I can't accept that this strange, this – this magic thing furthers his problems! He'll end up like his mother!"

But the Headmaster had the last word in the matter. And he was convinced by Hester O'Hare to send little Tom Riddle to Hogwarts. Why that was so, he told her when she was just intending to leave.

"I'm a Christian, Madam, and my faith in the Lord has always been strong. But I have always had the feeling that there should be more to the world, that there should be wonders and signs! And here you are, the proof of the supernatural. Be the Lord with you."

So she left the office, walking down the creaking wooden stairs. From far away echoed the feet of orphans on the floors, and dusty light fell through the windows. She was still lost in her thoughts, shaken by that poor witch's life, angry at the father, when a small boy appeared suddenly like a ghost at the bottom of the stairs. She immediately knew it was him, not by the parchment he held clutched in his hands, but by the tickle of magic around him. It momentarily took her breath away, to feel it so strong from a mere child. She knew only one person who emanated magic like that : the new Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts.

This comparison was somewhat absurd and it made her smile. The teacher was a middle-aged wizard with a youthful temperament and long auburn hair and beard, quirky but powerful, while this little boy at the stairs was only ten, tiny and dark-haired, wide-eyed and pale.

"Hello Tom," she said, mustering a kind smile.


	4. Theoretically

Disclaimer : Everything related to HP belongs to JKR. This story was also inspired by the wonderful theories on Mugglenet, you should give them a look!

A/N: The character of Mr Ollivander is integral to this story. His descriptions in the book are very interesting, but we don't know what's up with him. What we know is this : he's _very old_, he's a formidable _wand-maker_ who seems to be obsessed with wands, he can _remember every wand he ever sold_, he's kind of shady (the way he talks about Voldemortcould be called admiringly)and has _eerie eyes_.

* * *

Chapter Four : Theoretically

Minerva McGonagall sat in a comfortable red armchair next to the Headmaster. She liked being in his office, she liked being with him. Sometimes they didn't agree, and most of the time she didn't really understand him. It was scary sometimes to see that he was human, just as scary as it was to see him when he didn't appear human at all. Yet, she loved him with all the loyalty and affection of an old friend, and she was sure he did, too. This comforted her, to know that he loved and had friends, too.

But right now, she felt detached from him. He was absorbed by his multiple apparels and instruments, and hadn't spoken for more than an hour. Smoke and silver whirring wheels, crystals and potions, the scientific devices of a wizard, the eyes for the truth, only he was able to understand them. She couldn't follow him there. Sometimes she wished he would spend a little less time trying to understand and a little more time trying to act.

The clicking of something hard against a window pane got her attention. A huge white owl, looking completely out of place against the blue summer sky, sat there and waited to be let inside. She knew Hedwig, and most people did. Of course the snow owl was beautiful and exceptional, but she sometimes wished Harry would own an owl that was less remarkable, for it attracted attention to easily.

She went to the window and took the bird on her hand. "Hello Hedwig," she gently said, and the bird nibbled her shoulder. She had a parchment tied to her feet, and she took it and read :

"Professor Dumbledore." At first she frowned. This wasn't Harry's handwriting – but then her eyes widened and she recognised it : this was Hermione Granger's small impeccable handwriting.

"Albus –" she began, but Albus had already soundlessly risen from the table an took the letter out of her hands.

He opened it, and read a short and excited letter that made him sigh deeply. He sat down at the table, quiet and shocked.

"Why did he do this? He must have known ...".

"What happened?" the Transfiguration teacher asked anxiously.

"Harry. Harry told Miss Granger about the prophecy, about its contents."

"Well ... did you tell him not to do it?" She was rather surprised.

"No. I actually hoped that he would share this knowledge, so it would be easier for him. I also hoped that he would forward it to Mr Longbottom. But not by owl!"

"Owl!" Minerva called out. "By owl? But –"

"Yes. He wrote Miss Granger an owl. Of course, the girl immediately realised the fault. A good, a bright girl. But still, I can't believe that Harry would be so rash."

"Well, he _is_, sometimes ...".

They looked doubtfully at each other. No, this was a little more than rash. And Harry had always been careful what to write in his letters. Maybe he was a little less concerned about his own safety than he had been about Sirius', but that was no reason for him to become so reckless. Professor Dumbledore touched the bridge of his nose with a thoughtful air, moving his half-moon glasses.

"Maybe, if he was extremely excited, angry, near out of his wits ... maybe, if he was manipulated... He has long been able to sense Voldemort's moods, what if Voldemort has used that against him?"

"You're trying to say that Voldemort has made him do this?"

More than a year had passed since the Dark Lord had been reborn on a small graveyard in Southern England. A handful of Death Eaters had been with him back then, a handful who had answered to his call. They were but a fraction of his followers.

This – apart from trying to get to the prophecy – had been Voldemort's priority throughout the past year : reforming the ranks of his followers, calling back his old cohorts, punishing those who had openly denied him, hunting traitors and intimidating those who might not be all too faithful yet. But he also recruited new ones. There were always people who were keen to follow anybody they accepted as stronger and more powerful, people who liked to lick boots and be servants. They were like house elves, really. For Voldemort, most people were more or less like that.

Only the most loyal followers and those who could afford it had received the Dark Mark during his first reign. Spies, ministry employees, or those who were just too remote and unimportant, had not received it. The likes of Lucius Malfoy were en exception, because his power and influence granted the pureblood aristocrat enough immunity to not be searched for the Dark Mark.

Orestes Minkhad been attending Durmstrang and had been in the same year as Victor Krum. He was intelligent and reliable, but not a very powerful wizard. Still, his position among the Death Eaters granted him power : he was the secretary of Lord Voldemort himself.

Voldemort didn't usually produce much paperwork himself, but he had a strict timetable and lots of followers waiting to meet him, and of course, he received tons of information each day. The intercepted owl post was controlled by others, Orestes Minkonly looked through the priority cases : Order owls, owls to and from Fudge and owls to and from Harry Potter. Harry Potter had only become a target since the fight in the Ministry, butMink didn't know why. He had to look out for any valuable information, concerning Dumbledore, the order and prophecies.

So when he knocked at the door to the Dark Lord's private rooms this morning, he felt anxious and proud at the same time. This promised to be very valuable. The tall doors swung open slightly, and he came inside.

It was more of a study than anything else. Long dark green curtains shut out any light that might otherwise penetrate the high-ceilinged room. The walls were simply white, but lots and lots of mirrors and scrolls, plans and maps, and curious devices covered them. Dark furniture, dominated by a huge oval desk and a throne of dark wood and green silk behind. The desk was completely covered by all kinds of magical devices, silver wheels and whirring needles, looking glasses and swirling smoke, quills and ink and parchment, knives and vials, and objects of no discernible purpose. A tall Venetian mirror reflected the dim darkness, but the room it showed was different somehow, and sometimes shadows were seen moving in the mirror and the sound of doors opening and closing was heard.

There was only one picture in the room, and it was huge like a portrait and hidden by a black veil. No bed, no place to eat or rest was there, as Lord Voldemort had long ago left the realms of sleep and food behind. But there was a fireplace filled with grey ashes.

When Minkentered, he was startled by the tall figure of the Dark Lord standing in the middle of the room, not doing anything at all. He was clothed in plain black wizard robes, and a faint red sheen emanated from his eyes, that and the metallic shimmer of the silver instruments were the only light in the room. Pleasant shivers ran down his servants back and the Dark Lord smiled a snakes' thin smile.

"Finally," he said, and took the copy of the boy's letter from Mink's hands into his own, gloved ones.

"The old man made a big mistake this time, bigger than usual. He trusted the boy with the prophecy – doesn't he know that Harry Potter now is my eyes to see and ears to hear? To trust a boy who can't tell his own mind from the mind of other's ..."

"How does it change anything that Voldemort knows the full text now?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat, folding his hands for a moment. They were dining in an expensive and very elegant restaurant, with chandeliers and candles on the tables, with cherry wood and white linen table cloths. A piano was heard from the far corner of the hall. They were two old gentlemen tonight, using their wizard skills to appear perfectly normal to muggles.

Their meal was not yet served, but ruby wine glittered softly in their glasses. Opposite Dumbledore sat Ollivander, who, in comparison to the tall and imposing headmaster appeared small and frail. He had a very soft and thin shock of silver hair and puzzling bright eyes. Tonight he wore an old-fashioned muggle suit. Unlike Dumbledore, who had surprisingly just the right figure to look great in a suit – tall, lean, but not gangly – he seemed to drown in the black cloth. Both wizards were old acquaintances, even more than that, you might have called it a friendship, albeit a strange and irregular one. Ollivander was one of the oldest wizards of the time, and certainly powerful in his own ways, but his power wasn't comparable to Dumbledore's. It wasn't fancy charms and spells, but a more innate, secret wisdom and understanding of magic.

Dumbledore trusted Ollivander and Ollivander was one of the people whose advice he treasured, he who normally only took his own advice. And of course, there was also a wizard debt involved. Dumbledore had once saved more than just Ollivander's life.

"I'm honestly not sure. I don't know how much _he _knows. For example : has he realised why he was nearly vanquished when he tried to kill Harry for the first time? Does he know why he can't perpetrate the place where Harry lives with his relatives? But whether he does or not, knowing the prophecy would certainly fuel his will to kill the boy."

"Probably." Ollivander knew when to let his friend talk, and wasn't very talkative himself, unless it concerned his profession.

"And : did he realise the implications of using Harry's blood in the resurrection ritual? He must have studied it, and his knowledge of the Dark Arts involved does surpass mine," Dumbledore mused.

"But is he as expert as you are in blood magic?" Dumbledore had once been an alchemist's – Nicholas Flamel's - apprentice, and he been quite interested in ancient branches of magic, one of which blood magic was. Blood magic was every magic that was carried by blood, be it in the veins of relatives or in a potion.

"He might or might not be. If he is, he should know that technically, he now is Harry's blood relative. By blood magic standards, he could as well be his brother now." Dumbledore smiled wryly. "But even if he does know, this wouldn't concern him much."

"But it should," Ollivander stated in a quiet voice. His attention never leaving Dumbledore's worried face, his misty eyes sharply tuned on every gesture and expression. With one hand he absently graced his wineglass, but the other lay on his lap, hidden beneath the table. He hadn't drunk the tiniest bit since the wine had been served.

"Yes, it should. Because what protects Harry are blood relatives of Lily Potter. And a brother of Harry would also be a blood relative of Lily. So technically Voldemort would protect Harry. This hasn't been done before, but I'm quite sure about it."

"It sounds promising."

The waiter brought the first course, a light salad. Both men took their fork and turned around the leaves, but only Dumbledore took a small bite.

"So if he tries to kill the boy, he won't be able to do it, because at the same time his very presence protects the boy," the wand-maker concluded.

"I fear Voldemort won't be able to appreciate the irony, though," Dumbledore answered with a glint in his eyes.

"But once he realises this, won't he just let his followers do it?"

"He can't. It says : '_either must die by the hand of the other'_. He has to do it personally, directly. Which he can't."

"Stalemate."

"Indeed."

Dumbledore ate in silence for a while, until they were finished with the third course. Then Ollivander put away his fork and knife, abandoned his untouched meal, and looked around the room, the unsuspecting and rich muggles, the luxury and the preserved wealth of old times.

"I don't know much about blood ties," he said softly. "The only tie that interests me is the tie between wizard and wand. But are you sure about your theory, Albus?"

"Quite, I'd say. I'm sure that it makes Voldemort a kind of blood relative to Harry. And you know about their general connection. Now they're almost like twins – except for their character."

"But you aren't sure about the protection. I see. Could a relative of Potter do harm to him?"

"Well, do harm, certainly." Dumbledore's attentive eyes became distant and his expression was one of grief and remorse. His voice was low and almost a whisper as he spoke : "His real relatives have already much more harm than I would ever have imagined. This should never have been allowed. I simply ... I couldn't imagine that anybody could _not_ love this child."

"But surely you aren't talking about physical harm?" Ollivander didn't sound very touched. He usually stayed cool and rational, and detached from the emotional life of others. Still, he recognised the sorrow dragging on his old friend's features.

"I am. You see .. we can't be sure. They never tried to kill him. And when they tried to harm him, there was a kind of magical defence, but whether it was natural or stemmed from Lily's protection, I cannot tell. He isn't protected from unforgivables, as Crouch Jr. Was able to use Imperius on him and Voldemort has repeatedly applied Cruciatus. Maybe he is simply protected from Voldemort using Adava Kedavra."

Ollivander frowned and stared into the distance. You could clearly see his mind working. Dumbledore waited patiently, sipping at his wine. One of the reasons he treasured Ollivander's opinion and confided in him so thoroughly, was the deep understanding of how magic worked that the wand maker possessed. Like no one else he understood the 'mind' of magic. There were many experts on charms and spells, but few on actual magic. If Ollivander hadn't been so completely tied to the fine art of creating wands, he might have been a member of the Department of Mysteries.

"They are very much alike," the old wizard said softly, but still lost in his thoughts. "I remember them both ... when I first saw Harry entering my store, I thought of his parents. But when I measured his body, talked to him, felt his magic tickle in the air, when I saw him handling the wands, when I let him try them ... I was reminded of someone else. And then ... phoenix and holly... phoenix and yew ... . I told you back then."

"But they aren't alike. I know them both very well. Of all the students I had in all my years as a teacher, Harry and Riddle were the ones I watched the most closely. No, they aren't alike at all."

Ollivander looked at him and for the first time a thin but kind smile tugged at his lips. His white hair and the strange silver eyes were coloured with a golden hue by the chandeliers and candles.

"You know a lot about people, Albus. You know their minds as much as their hearts. You feel with them so thoroughly that you're sometimes blinded by love. I know nothing of such things. Maybe they are different in their minds and hearts. I hope you're right. But I know a thing or two about magic, and I know more than one thing how magic works. And from the point of view of magic, Harry Potter and the Dark Lord could as well be the same person. Their magical abilities are alike, their magic signature is almost the same, their power is of the same kind. They are bonded, they are equals. The protection Lily Potter gave her son is ancient and powerful, but it is also a very simple thing. It protects Harry Potter."

"Now, the protection has a little problem : it has two individuals who are nearly the same : the same magical signature, the same blood, the bond between them ... basically, I wonder if the protection is still able to make a difference between Voldemort and Harry. And if that is the case, Voldemort trying to kill Harry or Harry trying to kill Voldemort would look like suicide to the protection. Would it work, then?"

For a short and very rare moment, Albus Dumbledore was speechless. Then he shook his head.

"Let's hope you aren't right, for once," he said, but his voice was toneless and his face ashen. He looked old and insecure.

"Hope is good, faith is better, but doubt is the best," he then said. He sounded very much like he resented saying this, like he didn't actually want to believe it. "We have to act. If that is true, Voldemort could just waltz into Privet Drive and kill him... Harry would stand no chance ...".


	5. Phoenix Feather

A/N: Don't be confusedby Ollivander's thoughts concerning Fawkes, they will be explained (much) later in the story.

* * *

**Chapter Five : Phoenix Feather**

„That one is Ollivander's. They sell wands. Do you know what a wand is?"

Tom didn't answer but looked questioningly at Professor O'Hare. She showed him her own wand, a nearly white twelve inches birch and unicorn hair.

"Wizards use wands to do magic. Every wizard has one. You needn't be scared, it's quite easy. Mr Ollivander will take your measures and then you just have to try them out."

They entered the dusty, undecorated store, the smallest and gloomiest in Diagon Alley. Shelves upon shelves with little boxes. And Tom could it feel from inside those boxes: a quiet tickle, like a whispering breeze, electrifying.

"Welcome to Ollivander's, Maker of fine Wands," a soft voice behind them suddenly said. Tom jumped and fought the urge to run. An old man with greying hair and eyes that seemed to glow with soft silver in the gloom looked down at him. Tom felt like he was staring at the full moon, transfixed, hypnotised. Then it was over and the man walked past him to fetch something.

"Sit down here." His measures were taken in silence, and after a while the deputy headmistress said quietly to the boy : "I'll fetch you in half an hour, I'll just get your books and all, we don't have the whole day. Be nice."

Tom nodded, but she was already gone. Now he was alone with the strange man.

"Which is your wand hand?" Tom shook his head, scared.

"With which hand to you write, then?" The boy held out his left hand. He was trained to write with his right one, but it felt more comfortable to write with the left one. The wand maker nodded.

"Alright. Try this one – unicorn hair, fourteen inches, ash-tree. You'll be a tall one."

He took the long wand, waving it anxiously. And angry crackle issued, throwing white sparks. Ollivander quickly took it away, putting it back to the shelves. He was actually glad that the boy couldn't see his face right now. He was nervous. Last time he had met a wizard with such quantities of magic inside him to actually destroy a wand by just touching it ... had been more than half a century ago ...

"Well ... not a unicorn person, then. You see, the core of a wand says much about your personality. But it's not an obvious thing. If you're an unicorn person, that could mean that you're nice and soft-hearted, it could also mean strong white magic, it could also mean you're naive, or even arrogant. It also depends on the wood it is combined with. Try dragon-heartstring. And ... pine-tree."

That was a cheap wand – no problem if it was destroyed. Which it was. It started to sizzle and smoke. Ollivander quietly put it away with the other one. Right, he told himself. Let's try the stronger ones.

"I'll go fetch some others." He went upstairs taking out a few special ones. In front of one box he stopped, contemplating a second, then he took it, too. When he returned, the boy had turned his back to him, looking out of the window. He was small, scrawny, looked poor. A nervous set to his shoulders, always ready for defence, for drawing back into himself. Dark hair, and a face that would have been nice to look at if it hadn't been twisted by fear and a very low self-esteem. And yet, behind that lingered the uncontrolled flare of magic. No harmony. No discipline. Suddenly, the boy seemed to sense his presence and turned around, looking at the wand maker. Ollivander might have been frightened, had he be the kind of person to put up a fright.

Dragon-heartstring, he thought. 13 ¼ inches, aspen wood. A powerful wand, not easily to control. But once it is mastered it will be very reliable.

Unicorn mane. 13 inches, pliable hazelnut tree. A soft one, good for someone who's frightened of magic. No spectacular results, but very strong capacity for harmony. It would do him good. But the wand would have to choose him ... and it won't.

So. The phoenix. Phoenix tail feather, yew, 13 ½ inches. Extremely powerful, the right match for him. He's a yew person ... but I'd never give him Phoenix ... except from this one bird. He donated only one feather, in exchange for ...

Ollivander's hand was shaking as he unwrapped the wand he had created one frantic Halloween night. The night of the dead souls. A phoenix who belonged to a Dark Wizard. Yew wood. He wondered for a moment what might have become of the dark wizard and his bird.

Hadn't he promised himself to never sell this wand? Shouldn't he have destroyed it, long ago?

"Try this one, Mr Riddle."


	6. Doors

A/N: Just like Mr Ollivander, Aberforth Dumbledore is also important for this story. About him we know even less: he's _Dumbledore's brother_, the _bartender of the Hog's H_ead (and has probably been so for a longer time, since the Hog's Head was where Dumbledore auditioned Trelawney fifteen years ago), he is kind of _strange (_even more so than Moody and albus), has a connection with _goats_ (:DD) and maybe _can't read._ He also might be younger than Albus Dumbledore, as his hair is grey while Albus' is white. He is a member of the Order of the Phoenix. The 'door magic' he uses in this chapter was inspired by Neil Gaiman's 'Neverwhere'.

* * *

**Chapter Six : Doors**

Privet Drive, the present.

At 11 a.m. the next morning, Uncle Vernon set out to buy some bigger, better, more bombastic set of camping chairs, as Dudley had broken the last set at the age of fourteen and the Dursleys were planning to spent two weeks on Majorca with a rent mobile home. Petunia was spying at the window, supposedly looking after her husband, but more interested in the new next door's neighbours. The Harveys, who had been living there for years now, had unexpectedly moved out this spring and a new family was busy moving in. To Petunia, all new neighbours were suspicious, but those people looked especially shady. Harry was only two steps away, quietly washing the dishes. Dudley was having a sleep over at the Polkisses (or that was what Petunia thought).

Vernon drove the car down Privet Drive, but as soon as he arrived at the next corner, there was a loud crash : the car was lifted into air for the glimpse of an eye, a Hollywood image for those unbelieving neighbours who witnessed it, then it toppled sideways, coming down with the terrifying crunch of distorted metal. Uncle Vernon tried to squeeze himself our of the door, a wounded, heaving rhinoceros and while his hat rolled over the pavement, he finally came to his feet and stumbled away. He was barely out of reach when the car wholly exploded and threw him back down on the ground. Petunia grabbed the curtains and with a horrified yelp ripped them out of their socket.

Before Petunia or Harry could notice anything, before even the shocked neighbours could crowd to stare at the disaster, a number of peculiar figures emerged from several places in Privet Drive, startled into action by the unexpected assault.

First of all, a cat ran from under another car, not away from the fire but past it, to alarm her owner. Two cloaked and masked black figures stepped around the fire in the same moment, looking as out of place as the attendants of a masquerade ball in the middle of the day in a small suburb. They started to hex everyone in reach, but didn't advance farther than the border of Privet Drive, as if an invisible force was stopping them.

Another couple of the same kind came hurrying to the other end of Privet Drive. They scared the muggles into yelling for the police, which they ended quickly by a couple of curses. The Death Eaters turned towards number 4, and one of them tried to step into Privet Drive, but as soon as he did, he collapsed on the ground, shaking in cramps for the fraction of a moment, and then looked up, thoroughly confused about his whereabouts.

But even before the Death Eaters could curse the muggles, another tall cloaked figure had entered the lawn of number 4, had soundlessly crossed the flower beds like a ghost who leaves steps behind, had touched the wall of the house and created a door where none had been before and entered number 4.

And finally, a third party arrived. His arrival went unnoticed, because as soon as he apparated in front of the Dursleys' house, he already disappeared again, so that even someone who would have looked at the very place he appeared, would only have seen a blurred black apparition, vanishing again with a swishing sound. But wherever he had gone, he had arrived just a moment too late to see the other cloaked figure entering Number 4.

This first figure was cloaked in grey, ragged and coarse cloth, and very tall and lean. His face was hidden by the enormous hood, so he looked almost veiled, and he carried no obvious wand. Also, he did have a dubious taste : the door he had added to Number 4, Privet Drive, was a huge, positively medieval oak door with the metal emblem of a goat on it.

He entered through the door he had created in the wall and quickly climbed the stairs to Harry Potter's room. He didn't pause to know which door was his, rather he just touched the door for a tiny moment, like he was asking it something and then simply entered. As soon as Harry had seen the chaos breaking loose on the street, he had run up to his room to get his wand and be ready. Now, he whirled around, his wand in his hands, ready and yet unprepared.

"Stop," the hooded man said, with a coarse and raspy voice. "I'm here in the name of the Order, Harry Potter. "You must leave this house instantly."

Harry didn't move. "I don't believe you."

"Do you believe me now?" the man asked impatiently and removed the ragged layers of cloth from his face. It was an old and lined face, a grey beard and a hooked nose and blue, but somewhat bloodshot eyes. He looked a little like a ruffled old eagle and a little like a mad tramp. Harry gaped dumbly at him.

In the fraction of a second, the pieces came together for him. He had seen this man several times, in reality and on a picture. But only now he made the connection. This was the landlord of the Hog's Head. This was also Professor Dumbledore's brother : Aberforth Dumbledore, whom Mad Eye Moody had shown him before his fifth year.

"You're –"

"You only noticed now, eh? Come on, Potter."

"But ... the Dursleys! If Voldemort –" Aberforth was obviously not in the mood to listen to the boy.

"Nonsense. You're priority. The order and ministry will be here soon enough for them."

And with these words, the electric crackle of angry magic was heard from the stairs, and in the moment Harry choose to turn around, a black door had appeared from nowhere in the middle of his room, and he was pushed through. It wasn't like travelling by floo or port-key, but it wasn't a normal door either : he felt like for a second he was extended until he was nearly ripped apart, then, like gum, he regained his old shape, but was somewhere else.

The room on the other side of the door was completely unfamiliar. Swarthy, once white walls and ceiling, cobwebs in the corners, worn out wooden furniture and a barred window. A small bed with faded linen blankets stood in one corner, a little round table with a tea pot in the other. It was hot and smelled of stale beer and sharply of animal.

"Harry! Thank Merlin, you're alright." Harry turned around at the familiar voice. He looked at a relieved Albus Dumbledore, who still couldn't quite hide the worry that had been on his face before. Harry pushed aside all his other questions.

"What are Death Eaters doing in Privet Drive?" he instantly blurted out.

"A foolish kid told them our most secret secrets," a voice rasped from behind him and the door vanished as its maker stepped through it. Aberforth's sharp eyes looked disapprovingly down at him. Without a word, but looking rather sad, Dumbledore gave Harry the letter he had received the day before from Hermione. Harry didn't actually need to read it, to know what it contained. But looking at it gave him a short reprieve. What would he say to Dumbledore? There was no excuse for this stupid letter he had sent. In one of his angry moods, he might have shot accuses at the old wizard, but now he was only ashamed.

Gently, Dumbledore took the letter from his hands. He put it down on the round table, and said : "We all have to thank Miss Granger for her alertness. Otherwise we might not have been this lucky."

Lucky? Harry thought agitatedly. Lucky? Voldemort knows everything now! And the Dursleys, he added as an afterthought, are in real danger. They might deserve being scared by Hagrid or being tricked by the Weasleys, but not being killed by Death Eaters. Lucky? Suddenly Harry felt confused, and heat surged up in his body. He wanted to argue, to tell Dumbledore how wrong he was, how wrong _everything _was, but he couldn't find the words to do so.

Dumbledore turned to him, and just in time he saw the boy swaying and grabbed his arms. Harry's face was ashen, his eyes wide and his unruly hair sticky with sweat. He was shaking like someone fished out of an icy lake, although it was in the middle of the day and very hot in Hogsmeade. In the next moment he collapsed with a yelp of pain, and Dumbledore quickly dragged him to the bed where the boy was shaken by more and worse cramps. He looked like he was having an epileptic seizure.

It took almost an hour until Harry calmed down. His eyes were glazed and absent by then, his body feverish. The blankets were drenched in his sweat and Dumbledore conjured new ones to cover the boy. Now, he sat down by his bed, almost as exhausted as Harry himself.

"The muggles could be saved. The Riddler wasn't sighted by the ministry squads, but Auntie and Pharaoh report traces of his presence," heard Harry. The words didn't make much sense to him. Probably some kind of coded speech. Or maybe he was dreaming again.

"The house was partially damaged. One Death Eater was arrested, one killed. Two aurors were severely injured, one is still unstable. It is yet unsure how the Riddler got the address, but chances are he already knew it," Aberforth reported, who had been controlling the incoming news from the Order.

"Thank you," Albus said softly.

"Must have been in a right fury, this time," Aberforth reckoned. He had switched back from the cold professional tone in which he had reported to facts to his usual hoarse snarl. "This guy just can't control his emotions."

"He can," his brother answered. "He just didn't want to. I'm sure he knows that it causes Harry pain when is angry. And by the way, it wasn't nice of you to call Harry a foolish kid. I'm sure he would never have sent the letter on his own."

"But he did. He succumbed to the mind-control of the Dark Lord. The lad must learn to question his motives, otherwise he'll be tricked again and again."

Harry stirred on the bed and groaned in his feverish state. He had closed his eyes now and they could see them moving frantically under his lids, like he was having a bad dream. His fingers twitched. He looked like a sleeping cat who dreams of catching a mouse, drawing in and out her claws, dreaming of closing her jaws around a small neck. He murmured something, and Dumbledore leaned closer.

".. get you ... I promise ... I'll ..", was what he understood. He wondered whether Harry was having a vision about Voldemort. Suddenly, Harry opened his green eyes and they stared directly at each other. Each was startled by the intensity of the look they met and both of them quickly averted their eyes.

"Professor?" Harry asked meekly. "What happened?"

"Voldemort was angry that you could escape him once more. You were affected by his fury through your connection." Harry blinked. His glasses had been put aside and he felt still dizzy. The scar pulsated. He dimly remembered a feeling of heat boiling over inside it and it was still hot.

"How... how could they get into Privet Drive?"

"Only Voldemort can, now. I'll explain to you later. Nothing happened to the Dursleys. No one was killed but a Death Eater."

"How could they find ... the Dursleys' home?" Harry insisted from the bed. Dumbledore took off his glasses and started cleaning them with a purple handkerchief.

Behind him his brother still hovered, smoking a smelly pipe. He looked aloof and a little intimidating, from what Harry could discern after he reached for his glasses and put them on again.

"I guess he knew where to find you all the time. There are multiple ways to know it. He could follow the owls, he could intercept letters with your address on them, he could ask Peter Pettigrew, who probably knew your home from his visits with the Weasleys when he was still in his animagus form. And finally, he has many men in the ministry. Most people couldn't invade your privacy in Little Whinging because the just didn't know you lived there, Harry. But with Voldemort it was a little more difficult."

"How?"

"I'd rather not talk about this here," Dumbledore admitted. Aberforth snorted.

"I'm sorry," Harry suddenly said with a voice so soft they nearly didn't hear him. "I don't know why I sent the letter. I was just so ... angry ... I wanted her to understand!"

A sad and understanding smile flashed over Dumbledore's face, full of pity. He gently touched Harry's hand.

"Don't worry. It wasn't your fault. This was the risk I took by telling you about the whole prophecy : we knew that Voldemort could manipulate your thoughts and feelings. It was his work and his alone that you sent that letter. Thank Merlin you sent it to Miss Granger, someone else might not have alerted us."

"Voldemort?" Harry wondered. It made perfect sense now that Dumbledore said this. Before he was unable to understand how he could have been so thoughtless. After all, he was used to the concept that someone might intercept their letters, for he had been writing to and about Sirius for two years now and had always been careful. If Voldemort had manipulated him, this made sense.

"But I didn't resist. I didn't even notice!"

"Yes you didn't. Be more alert, boy. Get to know your own mind, unless you won't be able to tell it from the minds of others!" Aberforth advised gruffly. Dumbledore nodded to his words.


	7. Among Lords

**Chapter Seven : Among Lords**

Hogwarts, September 1938

The witch cried out his name and he knew it was his turn. They had often called all the kids after each other at home in the orphanage, so he was used to it. Was used to prying eyes and staring children, and used to being humiliated in front of a class. And so he walked towards the hat and the chair with his eyes on the ground.

He wasn't used to enchanted ceilings and floating candles though , but he thought he might come to like them. They were strange, and so was he.

Nobody in the Great Hall was too excited about the small, scrawny, black-haired boy putting on the ragged hat. He was unknown, a muggle-born probably, certainly not the richest if you looked at his dirty shoes.

Tom put on the Sorting Hat and was met with a deafening silence. Then he felt like very small voices were hissing and murmuring fervently, until the voice he had heard singing before rang in his ears.

"Welcome!" it said, much more heartily than expected. "Welcome to Hogwarts, last of our descendants!"

Descendants? Tom knew the word, it meant something like being the child, or the heir of someone. Not something he was. You must be wrong. I'm Tom –

"You're the Heir of Slytherin. And that is where you will be."

The –

"Slytherin!" the hat shouted with a booming voice. The students at the table under the green emblem frowned and whispered among each other as Tom approached the table. No one knew a pureblood family named Riddle, not even an ordinary wizard family. Probably he was a halfblood. That was unusual, and even more unusual was the obvious poverty of the first year.

Tom sat next to the other first years. They looked unlike all the children he knew in London, more like little adults, and none of them had the plain, hungry, scared faces you got to meet in an orphanage.

"Where are you from?" a taller, fair-haired first year demanded. The way he pronounced his words was very haughty.

"London."

"Riddle is your father's name, I suppose?" Tom tensed. His parents, mostly his mother, were his weak spot, the dark smudge on his self. Would they ask about his mother? Would they somehow find out that she had been a madwoman? But she hadn't been. She hadn't. It was all a lie. She had been a witch, and now he was a wizard. All those mean peoples who called her crazy were mere 'Muggles'. They couldn't do magic. This was what he clung too as he looked in the scrutinising eyes around him.

"It is," he answered, staring straight into the grey eyes of that boy. I'm a wizard. You're a wizard, he pleaded with his mind. "He was a muggle. A – a bastard. Left my mother. My mother was a witch."

He had used a bad word, and that impressed all the little upper crust children. Also, he had called a Muggle a bastard, and that was basically what most of their parents did. So he couldn't be that bad, could he? The fair-haired boy lost his haughty demeanour and a mischievous grin appeared on his face. You could suddenly see that he was handsome.

"That's it," he congratulated. "You seem the right sort of guy. My name's Black. Alphard Black."

The next Slytherin first year arrived, and they clapped and Tom was one of them, clapping too, an orphan among lords, and he felt as much at home as he had never before.

**Note** : Alphard Black, as you might or might not remember, is Sirius' uncle, the one who was wiped off the family tree and left him a decent amount of money. His age might be the age of Tom. Sirius was born in 1960. If Mrs Black was, say, 25 at the time, she would be born around 1935. If Alphard is her older brother, he could be around Tom's age.


	8. Hermione's Wand

**Chapter Eight : Hermione's Wand**

_„Dear Miss Granger,_

thank you very much for your thoughtful warning. I'm glad to be able to inform you that further damage could be averted. Mr Potter is safe within our care.

Yours sincerely,

A.P.W.B.D."  
  
Hermione looked at the letter and couldn't tell apart the feelings she had : gratitude that Harry was safe, pride because of the answer she had received from Dumbledore but also worry about Harry. What was 'safe within our care'? Grimmauld Place? Hogwarts? The Burrow? Somewhere else?

The next day, Hermione took the train to London. She knew that it was somewhat risky, but everything was risky these days and she had decided that being intimidated was the wrong thing. She was going to do some shopping in Diagon Alley for Harry's birthday and she would look for some books. Because now that she knew about the prophecy, she wanted to know more. And there were other things to know, other things to do.

She got there without problems. She entered through the Leaky Cauldron and no one noticed more than a young witch. It was common for young wizards and witches to wear muggle clothing, and even if it hadn't been, Hermione wouldn't have tried to mask the fact that she was muggleborn. It wasn't so much a matter of actual pride, as some kind of defiance and stubbornness.

Diagon Alley was much less crowded at the beginning of the summer break than it was at the end of it, but the atmosphere was tense and nervous. People were looking strangely at each other, with a mix of fear and suspicion, they were talking with hushed voices or too loud and fast. Everything felt awkward, jangled, disrupted.

Hermione's first stop was Gringotts. The goblins had put a huge troll by the door in addition to their usually more subtle security measures. While she waited in the queue, she listened to the wizards and witches around her. In front of her, a witch with a mint green petticoat and a golden monkey on a leash was waiting.

"Why is this taking so long?", she demanded with a shrill voice. "I'll be standing here until tonight and a sensible witch wouldn't be out late in these times!" As if on cue, the little monkey started to jump up and down on her shoulder, swishing his long golden tail like a leash.

"I think they are having problems with giving out the money," an Indian gentleman answered politely. "Too many people are trying to leave Britain and redraw their money. Some are even closing their accounts."

"Ha! Morons, all of them! Where are they hoping to be safe, anyway?" A stringy wizard behind Hermione interjected in a dark voice. The Indian wizard turned around and eyed him above Hermione's head. He was about Sirius' age.

"People like you are responsible for You-know-who gaining all that power," the Indian man said coldly. "You and those who run away like cowards."

"Cowards!" The petticoat witch called out in a tremulous voice. "Calling us cowards, did you hear her? I want to see you, when You-know-who comes to get your children ...!".

But then it was her turn at the counter, and soon it was Hermione's. She changed a small amount of her money into wizard currency, then she left Gringotts.

Her next station was Flourish and Blotts. The store was relatively empty, the only other two customers where searching the shelves with books about Defence and Security. The dusty air was dry, hot and stale. The manager was restocking shelves, his face was red and beads of sweat shone on his forehead. When he spotted the girl watching him, he started ranting.

"Look, that!" He waved a grey and serious looking book in front of her face. "The classics are coming back!"

'To be or not to be : the fine art of warding your house,' the title read.

"I almost threw them away – but it seems they're getting a renaissance now! You can say what you want, but war sells." Hermione scanned the other titles.

'Defence 101 – a hundred and one spells and counter-hexes.'

'The roots of terror. Analysis of the Dark Arts.'

'Dark Wizards through the Ages. The sordid details.'

The manager caught her disapproving frown and laughed. "Not the most useful ones, I guess. But they hit a nerve. What are you looking for?"

"Books on prophecies or divination. But serious ones, please."

"A school assignment, huh? Well, look over there, behind that shelf, there's a couple of them."

Hermione went to where he had shown her and started looking through the books. Most were rather superficial or too specific for her purposes. She was looking for a book that told her not how to see into the future or how to interpret predictions, but she wanted to know how it worked. How someone could really see the future. Her scientific reason told her that you could not. The future wasn't determinated. But still, there were real prophecies.

What Hermione needed to know was : is there a fate? Of course, books on divination implied that there was, indeed, something like fate. But she needed an explanation, a rational foundation, not esoterical babble. Finally, she gave up. There were no serious books on divination. She was right to hate the subject.

"Didn't find anything?" the shop manager asked. "Should I help you?"

"No, thanks. But do you have books on ... um ... the ministry?"

"The ministry of magic? Like ... a history? Of course!"

"No, not a history. Something about its tasks, about the Departments."

The manager raised a brow but led her to another shelf. He picked out several books and gave them to her. None contained a chapter about the Department of Mysteries. Just like in the Hogwarts library. Hermione decided to just ask him.

"I'm looking for one Department in particular," she explained. "The Department of Mysteries."

"Mysteries? There is no Department like that."

"There is, I'm sure. I've been there."

He laughed and turned away, to do something else. Hermione stared at the books. She was frustrated. A minute later she stormed out of the bookstore without buying anything – a highly unusual thing – and turned towards her last stop, the Apothecary. She was going to restock her potions supplies and buy some extras, for she was planning some advanced potion brewing during her holiday.

The shop windows were as always crammed with hundred of samples, beetles, roots, claws and frog legs, hides and pulverised stones, leaves and colourful liquids in filigrane bottles. She admired them for a second and then opened the door, which caused a jingle-jangle of little bells. But before she could even make a step inside, the shop manager shot out of a dark corner and stopped her. He was a gaunt and tall man with a lined but not too old face. Looming over her with a sour expression, he asked :

"Are you a witch?" The question was so completely hilarious that Hermione needed a moment to answer it.

"Of course I am. But –"

"Are your parents wizards?" Some people in the shop were looking up curiously, some were looking away as if ashamed.

"No, they aren't," Hermione answered suspiciously. "But what's the ma –"

"Can't you read!" the manager bellowed in a harassed voice. "No muggles. No mudbloods." He hit a square sign at the door with his index finger several times, each time more aggressively. Hermione's eyes widened and she felt the blood drain from her face in cold fury.

"You don't dare," she hissed at the Apothecary. "You insolent .. p-p-pretentious ..!" But before she could manage to finish her insult, the door was already shut in front of her face, and the shop owner and customers were continuing their business. She was still shaking from unconsummated fury, when she felt a small, cold hand being placed on her shoulder. A shiver ran down her backside. Her fury mutated into electrifying fright.

She turned, and looked at an old wizard, in black robes which once must have been expensive but where dusty and old-fashioned now. He was rather short, so that their gazes met directly, and Hermione was startled by a pair of perfectly calm but stunning silvery eyes gazing at her.

"Don't," he said softly. "It's of no use." Then she recognised him. It was Mr Ollivander, the wand maker. Hermione hadn't seen him since she had got her first wand almost six years ago and it was a rather blurred memory.

"But how can they do that?" she asked meekly. "Isn't it illegal to –" she gestured at the abominable sign – "do things like that?"

"Even if it was, they'd still be afraid of the Dark Lord's influence," Ollivander answered. It was strange, he spoke completely emotionless and also his feature betrayed no feelings, yet Hermione felt he was on her side. He turned away from the Apothecary and quickly walked down Diagon Alley. It was getting late, and he walked in the opposite direction Hermione wanted to take, but she followed him nevertheless.

"Ash, 10 3/4 inches, dragon's heartstring. Pliable and versatile. A rather old one, I remember selling it – six years ago," he told her without a shadow of doubt in that calm voice of his. Hermione was amazed, this was exactly her wand.

They stopped outside the very small shop that was Ollivander's. It looked exactly the same as always. Perhaps it hadn't changed for a hundred years. "May I see it?" Ollivander inquired. Hermione needed a second to understand and then quickly retrieved her wand – she always had it with her, even though she wasn't yet allowed to use it during summer break – and gave it to the old wizard.

He examined it with sharp and keen eyes, stroking the wood, swishing it in the air once or twice. "Very nice," he murmured. "You kept it extremely well. You're Harry Potter's age, aren't you?"

"I'm his year," she said cautiously. He gave back her wand and she put it away.

"I think I remember Dumbledore talking about you," he stated and entered his shop. She followed him, not knowing exactly why. Maybe simply because he hadn't ended the conversation, and certainly because she was dead curious now.

"You know Professor Dumbledore?" Did Professor Dumbledore really talk about her? She was so excited.

"Ever since he bought his first wand. 1851 –" Ollivander stopped, as if he would have continued to rattle down the wand specifics of Dumbledore, but didn't want to. The shop was completely empty but for the counter and a spindly chair, and the hundreds of shelves with dusty boxes looked untouched. The twilight drifting into the room through dirty windows made it look like a very old attic on a late summer afternoon.

"You wanted to buy potions supplies? I might help you out with some things. Follow me." He opened a door that blended in with all the dust and old wood so well that Hermione hadn't noticed it before and led her up a wooden staircase to the first floor. It was quite amazing in contrast to the store : except a small dark chamber, everything was alighted by a window that made up half of the ceiling. It looked like the atelier of an artist. There were tables and more shelves, but these weren't dusty. They were untidy, though, as if somebody was constantly working on them. Small silver and pewter kettles with foreign materials stood there, and satchels and bags, and extremely precious wooden boxes which contained each a single feather or a number of silver hairs or the powerful heartstrings of dragons.

There were tools that reminded Hermione of a muggle joiner and small brushes, pots with lacquer, scales and completely foreign devices. She understood that the making of wands was a complicated and delicate art, and it intrigued her. She would have loved to ask a million of questions, but Ollivander opened a huge cabinet for her that ranged from the floor to the ceiling and was filled with potions ingredients, nearly as complete as Professor Snape's own. She was a little embarrassed to take something.

"Thank you very much, Sir, but I really can't –"

"In the old days, refusing a gift was considered a grave insult," Ollivander informed her with an impassive face but a sly voice. She sighed and quickly took the most necessary things. He had managed to completely embarrass her by now.

But he was very kind, even though he was so strange. Slowly, she was feeling less uncomfortable in his presence. A very small bit he reminded her of Professor Lupin, who had been strange and mysterious, had kept secrets from them, but in the end had proven as a kind and loyal friend. Also, Hermione wondered whether Ollivander, if he was a friend of Dumbledore's, might be in the Order, too.

"Do you create all these wands by your own?" she asked instead.

"The hair of unicorn is gathered by virgin elf maidens, the Phoenix feathers are gracefully donated by their owners, the Dragon's are slain in honourable and perilous fight by great and adventurous warlocks. The wood is cut by shamans and wise people from all over the world, the lacquers are brewed by potion masters from far away. I only put them together in the right way." His voice let no doubt that 'putting them together in the right way' was far more difficult that slaying dragons and everything else. Hermione, knowing a thing about magic, believed him entirely.

"Each year, only a handful of wands are completed. They are the most powerful, the most essential tool of a wizard. In fact, they are the key to magic." Hermione hoped she understood.

"The wand channels the magic of its owner, doesn't it?" She supplied eagerly, trying to show her understanding. "Is that why every wizard needs a different wand, because their magic is different?"

Ollivander's moon-like eyes kind of glimmered for a moment. A ghost of a smile appeared on his usually emotionless face.

"You might put it like that." Ollivander closed the cabinet, slipping the little golden key back into his robes and Hermione put the ingredients she had taken into her bag.

"So, are you interested in potions?" the wizened wizard asked. His voice was very soft, yet penetrating in a barely noticeable way, like the sound of a breeze through silvery aspen leaves. Hermione felt like his question was important.

"Amongst other things, Sir" she replied. It was true, potions were interesting, even thought the lessons were mostly unpleasant. But there were so many fascinating subjects.

"How about Arithmancy? Magical Theory? Transfiguration, charms? I reckon you're good at those, Miss Granger?"

" You know my name?" Hermione gasped.

"People say I have a formidable memory." While they talked, Ollivander was always busy, putting boxes onto shelves, cleaning tables, closing lids, opening others. It appeared to Hermione that he was cleaning up, closing things away, like he was preparing an extended leave from the store. Then he stopped, turning to look at her, and his eyes sent shivers over her arms. They weren't human.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander said in an almost formulaic way. "Normally, one wand chooses one wizard. Keeping a wand for your children, inheriting a wand – that is a big mistake. Our magical abilities don't only run in the blood. It's the soul which is much more important. That is why I never believed in a essential difference between purebloods, half-bloods and muggleborn wizards. But very rarely it happens that a wand chooses a second owner. If a wand owner has no heirs, the wands go back to me, and if they're still intact, I keep them, because they might choose a second owner. Yours is one of those."

Hermione blinked. She felt that she was being told something very revealing about herself, as if she was being prophesied a fate.

"Your wand has been created by one of my ancestors, who created it for himself. He was a wand maker like me. Talented wand makers are very rare. The Ollivander family has kept this tradition for more than a thousand years, and often talented wand maker would be adopted so the trade would continue to run in the family. It is hard to find those rare talents, also because few wizards even consider being a wand maker an option. I don't have any children, and I won't have any. I'm the last Ollivander, and I'm nearly two-hundred years old. When I saw the wand of a wand maker choose you, I felt that this might be an indication about your talents. And I was delighted to hear from my friend that you were a promising witch indeed."

Hermione felt that this was too much to grasp. What was Ollivander expecting from her? That she would agree, right here and now, to become his successor? But she couldn't. Of course, the work of a wand-maker seemed fascinating, but it wasn't what she aspired. It was too solitary, too insignificant for society. She wanted to help people with her work, and to work with people.

But Ollivander wasn't finished.

"You're strongly magical, and also intelligent. You remind me of the young Albus Dumbledore, although he was even more exceptionally talented. But fancy spells and charms isn't what a wand maker needs. A wand maker needs intuition, and a innate comprehension of magic. And I'm not sure whether you possess that. You seem to think a lot, but rational thinking would be an obstacle to any wand maker." It was a strange mix of flattery and reprimand, comparing her to Dumbledore but also telling her she didn't possess enough intuition. It triggered her self-esteem, made her want to prove herself.

Even while she was listening – and she was listening hard – Hermione noticed another strange thing about Ollivander. He didn't get short of breath. He talked and talked, but even though he was old, his voice remained always soft, always smooth, and he didn't stop to catch breath. It was as if he didn't breathe at all, in the same way he didn't seem to blink. Eerie. And caught up in this observation and the strangeness of it all, what he said and did slipped by her and suddenly -

Ollivander abruptly turned and walked over to a smaller cabinet in the far corner of the room. Inside, there were many old parchments and books. He took out a small one, that looked like a diary or a time planner, and was bound in blue silk. The blue was dimmed by dust and faded at the edges. He came back to her and showed her the book.

"This was written by my ancestor, the first owner of your wand. Maybe it'll help you to decide whether you're interested or not. You can keep it, but if you don't want it anymore, please send it back to me."

As she took the book, her fingers brushed over the old wizards hand. It felt, for the fleeting moment the touch lasted, like cool parchment, paper-thin, smooth, and altogether not human.

"Thank you," Hermione murmured absently.


	9. Among Muggles

**Among Muggles**

"Don't let the Muggles get you down, Tom. Write us!" Alphard Black said, giving the other first year a wave and then walking away to greet his parents. He was the last Slytherin first year to part from the station, and now only Tom was left. Clutching his small luggage he stepped through the passage to the muggle station.

A nurse from Stockwell orphanage was to fetch him there, but he couldn't spot her yet. He was wearing trousers and a shirt which he had transformed during his year at Hogwarts, he had done this to nearly every piece of clothing, making new ones out of worn ones. It was not actually a spell for first years, but a sixth year Slytherin had borrowed him her transfigurations books.

Maybe it was because of the new clothes, or the fact that he had grown quite a lot, but Tom Riddle looked changed. The nurse didn't know him at first, throwing critical looks at the groomed and handsome boy.

"My, my, you've grown a lot. Let's get home," she said, with a clucking of her tongue. They stepped out into the streets of London, into the customary rain which Tom hadn't missed at all, and took the subway to Vauxhall and Clapham South. Muggles, he thought, Muggles all around. He watched the woman while she was not looking at him, and he assessed the people around him with cold rationality. They didn't look any different from wizards except for their clothing, they didn't talk or move differently ...

Were Muggles really lower beings than wizards? The only Muggle he explicitly hated was his father, and his father was dead, the nurses had told him when he was still little.

"So how did you do at the boarding school?" The nurse asked him.

"Well," he answered.

"What did they teach you?"

"... a lot." He wasn't allowed to talk about magic, much less do magic. He would go on pretending to be nothing but a Muggle. He couldn't even tell the kids off who insulted his mother. The nurse looked frustrated at his curt answers and fell silent as well.

Finally the reached Stockwell, the narrow 19th century facades and wet streets. It had stopped raining. They walked trough the doors of the orphanage and an unsuspected wave of nausea hit Tom when he recognised the single tree in the court, the creaky, worn stairs, the group of boys squatting in the yard. Some of them looked up, taking him for a new arrival. They walked past the school building when suddenly some boy roughly his age pointed out of the window at him and a group of others gathered behind him. Tom looked away.

The nurse helped him carry his things inside his old dormitory and then went away. He sat down on his bed in the dormitory, those empty, cold rooms which were the complete opposite of the elegant, welcoming Slytherin dungeons and waited for the unavoidable.

In the end, they came, when lessons were over : the boys of his dormitory, a year older than when he had last seen them and alien to his eyes. How plain, how stupid their freckled faces, how dull their eyes and hair. Their clothes, their gawking looks – he saw himself a year ago in them and it repulsed him.

"It really is Tom Riddle!" the boy who had pointed his finger at him called out with a nasal voice. "He's back!" A child Tom didn't know, probably a new one, looked confused.

"Who's that, Jerry?" the little one asked.

"Tha's old Tom Riddle, he's been 'ere until last fall. Bin coming from the loony bin. Tom o' Bedlam we've bin callin' him."

"Didn't want you, eh?" another one of then sneered. "Look at the fine clothes. Wanted to be a little lord, eh?"

"Where were you?" a smaller one demanded.

"I went to a boarding school," Tom answered stiffly.

"Liar! No Stockwell kid goes to a boarding school! I bet you only ran away!"

"Maybe he was back at the loony bin for a while," the first one snickered. They all joined in the laughter. Tom bit his lip. He knew his wand was in his pocket, only a small movement of his hand away. But he knew he would be expelled if he used it. And not going back to Hogwarts was as good as dying. He tried to turn out their laughter, to ignore their shoving hands when he walked through the hallways. He sat in silence during meals, and read all his books until he knew them by heart. It'll get boring for them, he told himself. They're just envious. They'll forget me if I don't react. And in six weeks time I'll be back at Hogwarts. Back among wizards ...

_Info : 'Tom o' Bedlam' is a traditional song about a man from Bethlehem hospital (a kind of love song, actually, I think). _


	10. A View to a Death

**Chapter Nine : A View to a Death**

_He woke to the soothing sound of early birds and to the pure light of a summer morning. He was wrapped in layers of light and white : white sheets, white walls, white ceiling, white light filtering through clean windows._

A faint sense of disorientation stole itself into his mind while he was still half-asleep. White ceilings .. summer .. where were the cold noises of echoing feet, where were the dim street sounds? He could almost bodily remember them, his heart tight and shivering at the memory.

He pictured himself getting up before the nurse came to wake him, and saw himself standing by the windows. He watched out, and saw a stained brick wall, dirtied by smoke and beyond that a roof, and a dreary grey ceiling. The window pane was blurry and cold. He touched it and as he looked at his slender fingers on the glass, the disorientation came back to him. It rushed over him like a wave and tore him away from the cold and the light.

With a start, Harry opened his eyes and blinked. The white ceiling was there. The white sheets were cool against his neck. The window was gently bathed in morning light. But it wasn't the same window as before. He was at Hogwarts and this was the hospital wing. Behind the glass shimmered the fresh green of the dewy Hogwarts grounds and beyond that the sun was rising above the Forbidden Forest. Real warmth spread through his body and he felt rested and fresh.

"Good morning," said Madam Pomfrey close by his side and placed a tablet with a mug of steaming tea and sweet smelling toast on the bedside table.

"Good morning, Madam," Harry yawned and wanted to get up, but she clucked her tongue and shook her head.

"No, no, no. You're not leaving this bed until I tell you to, Mr Potter." But other than her stern voice, her face was round and kind with a caring smile. Harry sank back into the cushions and thought by himself that this was how he imagined a grandmother to be like : warm and soft and caring, but with a stern edge.

While Harry ate breakfast, he observed the empty hospital wing. "Why am I here?" he asked between two bits of toast.

"No doubt because of some kind of folly, Mr Potter. The headmaster himself brought you here last night, you had a right fever back then." She checked his forehead but looked pleased. "Nothing I couldn't cure, thank Merlin."

"May I get up now, Madam?" Harry asked when he had finished breakfast. Madam Pomfrey nodded but didn't seem to happy.

"But no sports, no trouble, no getting excited, right, Mr Potter?"

Harry found his clothes on a chair by his bed, only to notice that they had been freshly laundered. He had just finished dressing, when the door to the hospital wing opened, and someone entered on silent feet.

Harry looked up to see Remus Lupin, in his usual worn robes, talking quietly to Poppy Pomfrey, who now seemed more worried about him than about Harry. Harry had to admit that Lupin looked bad : as exhausted as he normally looked after a full moon, thinner than usual and his hair had gained some additional streaks of grey. His face reminded Harry more than ever of his godfather : once young and although not as handsome, it was wasted now, his usual kindness wore a touch of defeat and more than one person's share of sadness.

Harry was torn between rushing to him and staying where he was, simply because he felt it would be awkward. A pang of guilt about his own selfishness hit him. He had felt as if he was the only one who had lost a close friend, he had wanted to keep the loss and the grief all for himself. But here was someone who had lost just as much, maybe even more than Harry : the last of Lupin's friends had died, while Harry still had so many friends.

Finally, Lupin came over to him. Another wave of guilt washed over Harry. Wouldn't Lupin think that it was because of Harry, that Sirius had died? He would never tell Harry, of course, but wouldn't he feel it?

"How are you, Harry?" Lupin asked kindly and somehow looked hesitating, as if he wanted to do something but couldn't. Harry had the feeling that Lupin might want to touch him, to shake his hand, to touch his shoulders, to even embrace him, but didn't dare to do so. Harry would have liked to, too, but he didn't dare either. So they stood there awkwardly, as Harry replied :

"Fine ... I guess." The strange thing was, that Harry actually felt fine, as least as far as his body was concerned. But also his heart felt better. Because the place that had been empty and motionless before was now filled with a heavy something. The constant feeling of being on hiatus was gone, replaced by the reassuring sense of a moving time and life.

"I just brought your things from Privet Drive," Lupin explained, gesturing to towards the door of the hospital wing. "Are you free to leave? I'd like to get out of Poppy Pomfrey's reach, she seems to have her mind set on keeping me here." Harry smiled faintly and nodded, together they left the hospital wing.

"I was at Privet Drive, yesterday and this morning," Lupin explained as they took the stairs to the great hall. "Dumbledore told me what happened. Are you really fine?"

"Yeah, it's alright. The, uh –" Harry tipped the scar with a finger, " visions don't have after-effects. Did you see the Dursleys? Is Hedwig alright? I heard that some Aurors were injured?" Lupin nodded.

"Bill Weasley is at St. Mungo's, that's why Molly isn't here yet. But he'll recover soon." They crossed the Great Hall, which was empty and very bright from the light of a clear summer sky as the enchanted ceiling. No students, no teachers, not even a ghost was there, and they quickly left, stepping outside. With a tired sigh, Lupin settled down on the stairs and Harry sat next to him. The sun already started delicately warming their bodies. Before Harry could ask another question, Lupin started talking.

"There are some things I'd like to talk to you about," he began. "I would have talked to you earlier, but we were all so busy ... and I wanted to give you some time, too. I didn't see you after .. what happened. After Sirius died," he finally brought himself to say. It seemed to take his every strength to drag those words out of himself.

"But when I saw you again at the station, I wondered if maybe I had given you too much time. Did I?" Harry was unable to answer to Lupin's concerned glance, and the man continued.

"You loved Sirius. I know you did, as sincerely as is possible. I admired you for being able to feel so ... deeply, even though the two of you had so little time. I wanted to say thank you, because Sirius can't do it anymore. It was the biggest gift you could give him."

His tight voice was full of emotion as he said those words and Harry could only understand a fraction of those emotions. He was fighting with tears without knowing it, and longing for Lupin to continue.

"I've known Sirius for so long ... but I never quite understood where he took this strength from. This ability to endure years and years of darkness without anything visible to hold on to, and still manage to preserve some part of light in himself ... I'm not that strong. He grew up in that .. in that place, but when he came to Hogwarts, he still was basically a good person. How did he do that?" Lupin seemed to be lost in memories, and to have forgotten Harry completely, but now he suddenly shook his head.

"I shouldn't tell you these things. You've good enough burdens to bear."

"Please do," Harry burst out without thinking about it. He rarely asked for anything, and Lupin noticed it instantly. He looked at his former pupil for a long moment, trying to see him clearly. To see not a child and not Lily and not James. To see whether Harry was ready to be told such things.

He couldn't give Harry his happy childhood, he couldn't give Sirius back to him. But he had the power to evoke his own memories and to make Harry understand. The young man who looked back at him certainly deserved that. And in that moment he noticed – with a shimmer of surprise – that Harry didn't only resemble the young James Potter or his mother. He also spotted a bit of himself in that boy : a boy who had seen darkness and grief too early, who was mature for his age and yet a little helpless. A boy who was unsure about himself.

Remus, who never asked for anything, was a little shocked and oddly pleased by that discovery.

"Harry, I hope you can understand this. I'm not telling you that Sirius wanted to die. He wanted to live very much – not for himself, but for you. What he thrived on was you, the will to protect you, the love he held for you. If not for you, the dementors would have had his soul easily after your parents' death." Smiling wryly, he added : "They wouldn't even have got him. I think he would have ended it the moment Peter escaped him. Sirius would have liked that kind of dramatic exit, back then."

"The thought of you and avenging your parents kept him going all through Azkaban. But you've seen him. Those years took their toll. I think meeting him again for the first time was the most painful thing I ever saw. I was very happy to finally know that in the end he hadn't been the traitor, but ... I wondered how it should go on."

Lupin sighed and went through his greying hair with one hand. It reminded of the tawny, shaggy grey fur of a wolf. Harry was remembering that night, too. How angry, how shocked, how happy, how disappointed he had been. The high hopes he had had.

"And then Sirius' name couldn't be cleared and he had to flee the country. But I met him again after your fourth year, and I had been in contact with him all during that year. As you can understand, there was a lot he wouldn't tell you. He had hopes, but all those hopes were centred on you. But even that couldn't hide the things that were haunting him. Not only Azkaban, or your parent's death. Also his childhood, the things we had seen during the war."

"When we were young, Sirius was a person who knew how to have fun, often on other people's expenses. He didn't have a very funny childhood, and he made up properly for that in his school years. But he was never a very happy person. Sometimes he was – when he lived with your father's parents, and when he first got his own flat. He told you that he ran away from home when he was your age, didn't he?" Harry nodded.

"Well, one day this winter, I think after Christmas it was, when you had already left again, he reminded me of that, too. He said that you were nearly grown up now. That you wouldn't need a parent much longer, that he didn't when he was your age. He sounded as if he was trying to say that you didn't need him any longer. I was afraid them, that he might do something stupid. But on the other hand ...

"We shouldn't try to deceive ourselves, Harry. It was a little wonder that Sirius survived Azkaban as well as he did. But that doesn't mean that he was totally unaffected by it. I think if not for you, he would have welcomed death when it came to him."

Now, Lupin looked stricken, as if he feared to have said too much. But Harry suddenly felt as if a lot of pieces were coming together. Sirius would have wanted to die in battle, Hagrid had told him. We'll meet those who love us, when we die, Luna Lovegood believed. He remembered the voices from behind the veil, the image of his parents in the Mirror of Erised. It would be like coming home ... And now Remus told him that Sirius would have welcomed death. Slowly, a heavy and definite truth sank into his heart, and he let go of a breath that felt like he had been holding it for weeks.

He would be able to accept Sirius' death.


	11. Hero

**Chapter 11 : Hero**

Dozens of grey, ashen faces gazed at the Great Lake. The first ones were starting to turn away, some even crying. Minutes had gone by since the silvery surface had last made so much as a little ripple, and hope was vanishing quickly. It was a sunny and mild day in May, but it looked as if no sunray was able to touch the water, a dark mist hanging over it.

Prefects had panicked, first years were quivering. The Deputy Headmistress had her hands clasped over her mouth, all blood drained from her face. Next to her, the Head of Slytherin house, Zoroaster Zabini, wore a pinched and tense expression. Suddenly a movement went through the students and Albus Dumbledore arrived.

His auburn mane uncombed and his eyes flashing, he called out to Professor O'Hare. "What has happened?"

"T-there was a kind of sea serpent – but it wasn't! It was an illusion, made out of water," she hastily explained. "It grabbed two girls by the shore, and another student who tried to fight it. We can't enchant the lake, we couldn't know what would happen!" Being a charms teacher, this was the first she thought of. Zabini, an Astronomy teacher, was no help either. But Dumbledore simply frowned, then stared at the lake. She could see his form changing, his skin became covered in silvery fish scales – when suddenly the tranquil surface of the water broke and a huge serpent made of water emerged.

It was taller than a building and had long winding curls of green water, and its awful head was crowned by watery horns. A tiny human being was riding its back, half engulfed by the water, and obviously doing magic. Crackling flashes of blue hit the beast, and it roared like a hurricane. Frightened, the students backed away from the lake.

"Merlin!" Zabini yelled. "He's trying to fight it!"

"Who _is_ that?" O'Hare asked, squinting at the tiny figure high up in the air. Through the spilling rain of water she could see that it were actually three little figures, one clutching the other two.

"Riddle," Dumbledore answered calmly. Then he aimed his wand at the water beast. But in that moment, a shiver went through the serpent and suddenly its coils froze to green-blue ice. A mighty groan went through the ice and it instantly broke in a thousand tiny shards that dashed back into the lake. Almost in front of the three teachers, the students it had caught fell into the lake. One of them got up quickly again, gasping and spitting water, and dragged the two others back to the shore.

It was Tom Riddle, third year Slytherin, orphan, extraordinary student. His black hair was plastered wetly to his head, and his clothes were completely drenched in water. The two girls in his arms were unconscious, small first years. Dumbledore hurried towards him and tried to help him with the girls, but Riddle ignored him, struggling to the shore, and collapsing there. In that moment, the whole lake rose behind them as if to swallow him. Dumbledore whirled around, a hot wind rising from the land behind him, making his robes flutter menacingly.

"_Exhortia_!" he roared at the lake, and with a long howl, like a wounded beast, it deflated and at last went silent again. Sudden silence settled over them, into which a bird timidly started to sing. Still, everyone was shell-shocked by the giant serpent, by the daring fight of the student, but also by the scary display of power from their transfiguration teacher. It was hard to tell which had impressed them the most. Finally the sun was touching the lake once more, carefully reclaiming her territory. Dumbledore turned around and smiled at them.

"Quick, let's get them to the Hospital wing," he advised. They nodded, and the Charms and Astronomy teacher each gathered a girl up, but Dumbledore tried to help Tom Riddle. The boy shook his hand away, proudly trying to stand on his own. But he was swaying and stumbling, and Dumbledore more often had to help him than not.

"Dumbledore, that spell you used – wasn't that the spell to banish a demon?" Professor Zabini asked. He was a very tall, broad-shouldered man with long straight dark hair. His attitude was regal, and sometimes blatant preference of Slytherins was really straining their patience, but generally he was a reasonable man, and a positive example of Slytherin house.

"A good guess," answered Dumbledore with a wink and a grin. "But what would interest me far more is the spell Mr Riddle used against the demon?" Tom, a grim set on his weary face, didn't reply.

"It was very brave of you to try and save the girls, Tom, " Professor O'Hare gently told him. "But you should have called a teacher or a prefect. You are only in your third year!"

"Well, I did manage it, didn't I?" he asked defiantly.

"And quite a feat it was," Dumbledore nodded. "So why won't you tell us what you did? I never saw a fight like that until today."

"I was near those two," Tom gestured at the unconscious girls, "when the lake suddenly changed, and the serpent emerged from it and attacked them. I tried to talk to it –". He suddenly fell silent. Dumbledore raised a brow.

"But of course one can't talk to serpents," Tom added nervously.

"Of course not."

"So I tried to accio the girls, but instead I was sucked into the lake with them. There I fought with the serpent. I tried to get it under my control, and then, when we rose out of the lake again, I used a freezing charm."

"Wonderful! Such a huge and animate object!" his charms Professor cried in delight. They reached the Hospital wing and gave the two girls to the fussing nurse. Tom was urged to sit on a bed as well and take of his clothes, but he refused to do so, staring at them. He had grown a lot during the last year, and was quickly losing his shy childhood demeanour.

In a moment when Zabini and O'Hare were looking after the girls, Dumbledore looked sternly at the boy. "The spell you used to control the demon serpent was Imperius, am I right? That is an unforgivable. How did you learn it?"

"I didn't. I only read about it. And it didn't work anyway. So it was a demon?"

"Oh, I think it worked quite nicely for a first time."

"If you say so." Tom struggled to remain indifferent. For a Slytherin he had remarkably few self-control, Dumbledore noticed.

"It is hard to control a demon. Harder than any being or beast, harder even than a ghost. One needs a ... a certain attitude, you might say." Tom shrugged, but a flush of pride appeared on his cheeks.

"It can't be that difficult. You banished it with a simple spell, Professor." Dumbledore was baffled for a moment. Nobody ever treated him as if he were an ordinary wizard. His magic was extraordinary and everybody knew that. This boy had just possessed the arrogance to compare himself with Dumbledore without even so much as noticing it.

"Alright, Mr Riddle," he said curtly and left the infirmary. Tom waited shivering for the other teachers to leave, then he took of his dripping clothes and dried his body with soft towels. That Dumbledore was an awfully arrogant man, a real Gryffindor, nosy and self-absorbed. And Tom was almost sure that the wizard had been trying to invade his mind, he had felt the tiny prying fingers clawing at the walls of his self almost physically. He hated to be seen through. But at least Dumbledore had been so fixed on the Imperius' he had used that he hadn't even asked about the origin of the demon.

Lost in his angry thoughts, he didn't notice the nurse approaching. She was a plain faced, motherly witch, with red hair puffy around her face.

"Here, take that pepper-up potion – oh dear, what is that?" Tom winced and wrapped the towel around his back.

"Nothing, Madam." But she removed the towel with more resolution and strength than he had expected. She took in his back and his upper arms. Not-so-old traces of his fights in the orphanage marred his pale skin. The scars were a writing she was apt in reading.

"Nonsense. How did you get these?" Tom tried to push her away, but he was only thirteen, and she was a stout woman of forty.

"Now! Will you stop that? I'm only trying to help you, stupid boy." Her features softened. "You needn't tell me. Someone has been beating you up, right?"

Tom sat rigid in her grip, but his left hand wandered to where his wand lay on the bed. Her stern blue eyes were fixed on his expression, though, and that was one of cold fury. She pursed her lips.

"I can help you, but only if you talk to me. So, who's done this? Your dorm mates? Your parents? A teacher?" His fingers found the wet handle of his wand and wrapped around it. Slowly he drew it to himself. She sighed.

"You're probably ashamed, right?" His face twisted in sudden hatred.

"Obliviate!" he hissed, and his hand lashed out at her, his wand touching her neck. The woman stumbled backwards with a startled cry, then collapsed on the stone floor. He quickly wrapped his still wet robes around him, and dragged her heavy body behind a parapet. She would wake again and probably think she had fainted. He sweated and panted and cursed his weak physical body. He had just hid her, congratulating himself on the successful memory charm, when a crowd of students broke into the infirmary, lead by Alphard Black, a fellow Slytherin who was constantly at Tom's heels since their first year.

"Tom Riddle!" he shouted, a huge grin on his face. He had forgotten all about Slytherin composure. "You're the hero of the day! Zabini awarded you a hundred points!"

He grabbed Tom's shoulder and dragged him away, the cheering, chattering crowd around them. Everyone seemed to feel the sudden need to touch him and shake his hands and clap his shoulders and shout things at him. Alphard even had his arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"Tell us how you fought the thing!" The other students followed his example, firing questions at him. Behind them, the infirmary doors fell shut, and Tom quickly forgot about the obnoxious nurse, the memory spell and Dumbledore. What remained was a growing exhilaration, carrying him on waves of pride.

"Well," he began his tale, smiling at the expectant faces. "I ...".


	12. Promise of a Murderer

_To avoid confusion about the timeline here : The first two scenes are in reverse order, as obviously the trial happened after the crime._

**'In Essence Divided' has now got a betareader! Say hello to rambkowalczyk, who is the best Beta I've ever had! **

**Chapter 12 : Promise of a Murderer **

The Russian Wizengamot was a somewhat tacky looking baroque building with shiny wooden floors and gaily coloured, gold embroidered walls, crystal chandeliers and pastel portraits. The double doors of the court rooms opened, and people poured out of the wizengamot, dissatisfied and aggressive murmurs hung over the crowd.

Finally, the pair of judges and two other men made their exit. The judges bid goodbye, one coldly, one kindly, and left. Albus Dumbledore turned towards his protege, the defendant.

"Time to cheer up, Severus," he said in a somewhat strained cheery voice. "We've gotten away with it. It's time to go home, I guess."

Snape didn't answer to him. His anaemic face was shrouded in a dark, deathly silence. It wasn't so much aggressive as it was impassive and cold. This had been his trial – not his first – for the supposed murder of Igor Karkaroff. Additionally he had been accused of the usage of several unforgivables and of being a Death Eater. Once more, Albus' pledge had rescued him. But this time, Albus had lied to the judges.

They slowly left the building, walking down a green and lovely park that surrounded the Wizengamot. At the bottom of a long slope, he looked back at it.

"When it is all over, and surprisingly we're both still alive, will you let me be judged for my crimes?" he asked quietly.

"Normally, people shouldn't walk over a freshly planted flower bed. We agree on that. But if someone is hurt and the flower bed is the shortest way to the hospital – wouldn't you forgive the person who tramples the flowers to rescue a life?" Dumbledore asked gently.

+

It was a small, wooden cabin in the woods of Siberia. This was a place where the wolves howling were real wolves, where the trees hadn't ever been touched by a human hand. It was silent as a grave under the black shroud of the starry sky.

No light was in the windows, no smoke came from the fireplace. And yet, a human being was cowering inside the cabin like a trapped animal, a trembling rabbit in a sling.

It was a warm summer night in Siberia, and yet the flies had stopped buzzing.

Snape stood at a secure distance from the cabin, like a beast in the forest hiding in the dark. He wore his black robes, but neither his hood nor his silver mask. He would look into Karkaroff's eyes while he did it, a last tribute to a friendship that had always been weak and superficial. He's an idiot, a coward, he told himself. He's a murderer, too.

Slowly, he closed the distance, feeling like a vulture that soundlessly sweeps closer to a dying animal. Then he knocked at the door. Nothing answered him.

"Keep your dignity, Igor," he said, barely loud enough for somebody inside to hear him. "Open up before I do it."

Complete silence, for a while, then the door swung open. A sharp stench of fear and stale alcohol met Snape's senses. He grimaced, and silently congratulated himself for his almost complete abstinence. From inside the cabin, Igor was looking at him.

"As if dignity mattered to the dead, Snape," he slurred, his Russian accent thick. Snape remained silent, and he could see the other wizard's leg shake.

"How .. how about you join me for a drink? A last ..?"

"No," was his flat answer. "I don't drink on a mission."

"You could plead for temporary ir-irresponsibility due to alcohol, when –"Karkaroff was more than nervous, he was practically begging for a reprieve.

"I wouldn't." Hanging his bearded head in defeat, the Durmstrang ex-headmaster stepped aside and let Snape in. He lit a small gas lamp that emitted a far more terrible odour than its feeble light justified.

"How could you be so stupid?" It was the only question Snape would ask, the last admission to their friendship.

"How could you go back to him?" was the accusing answer. Then Karkaroff clamped his eyes shut for a moment and drained the almost empty bottle of vodka on the table. Finally he laid his wand next to the empty bottle.

"That's it then?" he whispered to himself, and then said something in Russian. Finally he turned around for the patiently waiting Snape.

"Get it over with."

Snape nodded and drew his wand, but then Karkaroff suddenly dropped to his knees and Snape hesitated. This reminded him too strongly of the situation that had made him change sides : the first time he had to kill a man he knew, pleading to him on his knees. Murder wasn't the problem. But whenever Snape saw a person on their knees, pleading for mercy, he was reminded of his mother. And when it happened for the first time, he had realised what he had become : a man like his father. He had had to kill that person, just like he would now kill Igor, but then he had changed sides.

The only reason he was doing this now was necessity. And the fact that if he didn't do it, somebody else would. It was only a matter of time. And maybe Igor would appreciate being killed for the cause of general good.

"Stop the nonsense," he snarled. "Get up." Slowly, Karkaroff got up again. He stared at the potions master with mad eyes.

"You have left the Dark Lord," Snape said with a stony voice, staring back with a steady glare and mustering all the darkness inside him. He thought of all the hateful things he knew, of the Dark Lord and Potter and his father. "Crucio."

Karkaroff groaned and almost instantly dropped to his knees, shuddering in the spell's painful seizure. Snape held it as long as possible, until finally: "Finite incantatum", he said. Karkaroff's heaving breath filled the silence of the cabin.

"Get up," Snape commanded and waited for Karkaroff to struggle back on his feet. A trickle of dark blood ran from the Russian's hooked nose over his purple lips.

"You defied your master. You cowardly fled, trying to hide with his enemies." His words were hollow and pale, ghosts of his past, present, and future, containing none of his usual venom. Even while he said them, he could picture another scene, a scene in which he was Karkaroff and another person was saying this.

"Crucio." Again, repeat. This time, the tortured wizard screamed, and writhed on the ground at his feet, screamed and desperately tried to clutch his executioner's feet.

"Stop .. it ... finish me..". When he said the words, Karkaroff was barely aware that the curse had already been lifted. Slowly, Snape kneeled beside him. He bent closer, until the smell of drunk and early decay became overwhelming, and then some. Slowly, Karkaroff opened his eyes just a tiny bit. They were swollen with red, burst little veins, but they had been grey once.

"They'll win," Snape whispered, barely audibly, as close to his ears as possible. "They'll kill the bastard and his bloody Death Eaters."

For the fraction of a second, comprehension dawned in those tortured eyes, and as his features relaxed, Karkaroff was hit by the green light of the final curse. Snape got up, dusted off his robes and left the cabin without a second glance, walking off into the woods, then disapparating.

He was the first to find Karkaroff, because he knew him best. Now he'd return to Voldemort, bringing him the news, and hopefully regaining the trust of the Dark Lord. This was his offering, by this he hoped to regain the dark Lord's trust. It was not Voldemort who had given him the order to do so. It had been Albus Dumbledore.

+

Remus, who had felt torn and miserable about trying to tell Harry how it had been for Sirius, felt the first dewdrops of relief trickle from that great icicle of fear to say something wrong. He knew how delicate the matter of Sirius' death was to Harry. He knew it because he felt guilty himself. It had been his task to keep Sirius from leaving Grimmauld Place and he had failed. And then there was the problem of discussing a death wish with an emotionally unstable teenager. He didn't want Harry to get the wrong ideas.

There was a fine line between welcoming death and being suicidal. It was the last thing he would ever have told that Harry: that Sirius had been suicidal. He hadn't. He had been reckless out of boredom and hurt pride, and he had been less than stable, but it wasn't the same as suicidal. Remus remembered thoughts of ending his cursed life during his youth and many years later; they were idle, stupid, and mostly not very serious thoughts, that would now and then befallen him.

But he had always been much too rational, much too responsible to really act out on them. And Sirius had been too stubborn and too proud to do something like that.

But how do you tell a teenager something like that?

It had made him nervous and he had hesitated a lot. He wouldn't let Harry get the wrong ideas, or the wrong image of Sirius. He certainly knew how dangerous it would be to tell a youth that their admired and beloved relative had willingly chosen death. He didn't need muggle psychology to know that, although he had in fact prepared his engagement as Hogwarts teacher by reading books on children's psychology.

But he could see now that Harry had understood him. He could see the dawning understanding on Harry's face, a face that was growing older with every week, that was now at the brink of maturity. He could see now, that the bitterness and shock about Sirius' death was replaced by real grief and sadness. The first step into the right direction was made.

"There is something else I need to talk to you about," Remus said into the thoughtful silence. Harry looked up at him. There was a strange gleam in his green eyes, a gleam of pity and compassion, of love and understanding, that Remus had seen before, and it momentarily rendered him speechless. For a very short moment, Lily had been looking out of those eyes.

"What is it?" Harry demanded.

"It's – it's Sirius burial. And his last will."

"Oh, yeah. I guess ... I guess I won't be able to attend it." Harry stared down at his feet, looking frustrated.

"Why is that?"

"It's ... I'm practically hiding from Voldemort, aren't I? I can't just go attending burials. They'll be looking out for me. Especially there."

"It'll be a private affair, Harry, I'm sure it will be just as safe as being here in the castle." Harry looked dubious, yet hopeful.

"And it won't be a cemetery. Sirius had ... he wrote in his last will that he would want to be buried wherever James and Lily were buried."

"And where is that?" Harry demanded rather unhappily. The realisation that Harry had never been at the Potter's grave hit Lupin with full force. He hadn't thought about it before ... but wouldn't it have been their duty to at least show him the grave once? It made him wonder about Dumbledore, but also about himself. Why had they never bothered to tell Harry more, to show him more? Why had Harry never asked to see the grave?

"At Godric's Hollow. It's the place where –"

"It's the place where my parents were killed."

"It's also the place where they lived. It's the place where James grew up. Sirius liked it there very much. He used to camp in the Potter's garden when he was sixteen and had run away from home."

"Wasn't it destroyed?"

"Well, we're wizards. There are means to restore buildings. Actually, Godric's Hollow is one of your properties, Harry."

"I didn't know that. People never tell me anything until ...".

"They won't do that anymore," Remus suddenly promised. "You can ask me anything, Harry. Anything. I promise I'll answer."


	13. Don't Touch Me

_This chapter was betaed by my most wonderful beta rambkowalczyk. Writing with a beta really makes a difference!_

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

**Chapter 13 : Don't Touch Me**

"You left early," Alphard Black said as he entered the sixth year Slytherin boys dormitory. It was the first evening in Hogwarts, and everyone else was still celebrating in the Great Hall. Only he and Tom Riddle were down in the dungeons.

"Phyllis Rookwood is throwing a fit because you left her with all those first years," Black remarked with a laugh.

Phyllis Rookwood was the other Slytherin prefect and unlike Tom she was not neglecting her duty. Not that negligence was a normal thing for Tom, which was why she was angry and Alphard was worried.

Five four poster beds with impeccable white sheets and five heaps of luggage at their sides were waiting for their owners. As always, the house elves had been busy. On one of the beds sat a small cage with an ugly fat rat. On the wall opposite the beds hung a medieval tapestry. It was woven in shades of green and showed Salazar Slytherin riding a kind of giant snake and many small people and creatures around him. In one hand he held a human skull. Nobody was quite sure what the depicted scene actually meant, but it was quite decorative. From somewhere in the wall the sound of gurgling water could be heard running through pipes. It had been raining since last night.

Tom was sitting on his bed; one of his suitcases lay opened beside him. As Alphard entered the room, he saw Tom hastily struggle out of his white shirt and pick up his night-shirt. His movements looked all wrong and stiff. He had noticed before that Tom was like this every time he returned to Hogwarts.

Alphard had tried to gain his trust and be his friend for the last six years now and in some way he had succeeded: he knew Tom better than anyone else. On the other hand the friendship was a bit one-sided. He gave more than he received. It bordered on worshipping ...

They had met in their first year and Alphard had instantly felt drawn to Tom. The quiet loner promised mysteries and secrets to the curious boy Alphard was, and he was not disappointed. Getting behind Tom's secrets was one of the hardest and most rewarding challenges he had ever known. But the more he learnt about Tom, the more he was drawn in. Curiosity changed into admiration and respect. And that was something very extraordinary for a member for the noble and ancient House of Black.

Alphard came closer, casually watching Tom. A protective glimmer was in his eyes, but not for the other boy to see. He knew Tom would never permit anyone to care for him. Tom would take admirers and followers, but not friends. Alphard knew how many admirers Tom had.

Girls loved his handsome looks and his adult ways, and the Slytherin boys never tired of Tom's displays of skill in the Dark Arts. He was a prodigy, and a man with visions. Well, a boy with visions. But Alphard wanted more. He didn't just want to be one of many admirers. He had set his mind on becoming Tom's friend.

"These are some nasty scratches," he commented while reaching out to touch Tom's back. The other boy shot around and glared at him.

"Don't touch me," Tom hissed, lacking all of his usual grace and smoothness.

Alphard raised a brow, a distinguished-looking skill he had perfected during his third year. He was a fair Black, as Blacks generally came in two types: the fair Blacks with pale blonde hair and the dark Blacks with dark brown or jet-black hair but often blue eyes. Apart from Tom he was easily the most handsome and talented boy in Slytherin and he wasn't used to people reacting that badly when touched them. But he knew when to retreat. Tom didn't hesitate to put a curse on someone.

The impoliteness didn't concern him too much, though. While he liked to insult others in a very polite way, he was used to his Slytherin companions being not so subtle. As far as Alphard was concerned, Tom could curse him all he wanted; what really bothered him was the fact that Tom never trusted him.

Not that he expected him to open up and be all kind and trusting in a silly Hufflepuff way, but couldn't he at least stop to be notoriously mistrustful and paranoid? It is annoying if someone is constantly trying to intimidate you and looking for ways to blackmail you; when he all he would have to do to make you walk through fire for him is ask.

"Alright," said Alphard.

He put a safe distance between them and sat down on his own bed, crossing his legs. Tom quickly put on his night-shirt, then he seemed to relax. The shirt was a shield, Alphard figured, one of the many layers of protection that Riddle needed between him and the world. He rarely ever wore short sleeves, and in winter he always wore gloves. He never took dives in the lake with the other boys and he showered at times when other people didn't.

In the beginning this habit probably came from the scars and bruises. It was natural to Alphard that Tom would want to hide such ugly things, no Slytherin would ever admit such weaknesses. A Slytherin did not have such weaknesses.

And yet he didn't turn away from Tom, that was the strange thing. The weaknesses he knew Tom had didn't lower his opinion of the other boy. No, they added to the fascination, at least for Alphard. Alphard loved mysteries and ambiguous things; he never was happy with seeing just the surface. His favourite subject was divination.

"It's good to be back," Tom sneered as he put the shirt back into the suitcase, on top of a new-looking, black-bound book.

"I thought I was going mad with all those Muggles ...".

"Really. It seems they like you just as much," Alphard smiled. For a small moment, Tom's haughty expression changed into something ugly and frantic. Then he came back to normal.

"That's none of your business."

Tom never missed an opportunity to show his contempt of muggles. Actually this was bit ordinary, the kind of thing that would-be purebloods did who had only been of pure blood for three generations or so.

But Alphard acknowledged that unlike those pitiable subjects, Tom had actual reason to hate muggles. His muggle father had defiled his mother and abandoned him and Tom had grown up in a horrible poor environment full of muggles. Alphard couldn't even start to imagine such a thing or how Tom could bear it. If it was he living under such conditions, he'd have hexed them all the moment he'd learned to hold a wand, whatever laws and punishments there might be. But Tom couldn't do that.

Alphard didn't pity Tom because of the bad luck he'd had in life, or the fact that he was a half-blood. But he couldn't help but feel pity for him when it came to not being able to defend himself.

Black shrugged.

"It's not that bad," he said indicating to Tom's injuries. "Would you rather look like that second-year Gryffindor? The one with all the spots and those horrid glasses? I think they'd look right cute on you ..." He grinned lazily.

"Oh, fancy her?" Tom shot back with a bright flash in his eyes. That was how Alphard liked him.

"Not your type, is she? Who is it then? Which girl do you like best?" Black asked slyly. His voice was persuasive and smooth and he had perfected the skill of calming his friend over the years. All the taunting only served to distract Tom from the summer. By his face you could see that Riddle pondered the question quite scientifically.

"Miranda Whitethorn is pretty, but she's a Gryffindor and also ... I don't like those Quidditch fanatics. No class. I think Belinda Goshawk is a nice girl," he finally answered.

But the way Tom said it made clear that he would never ask her out. He didn't care a bit about the girl, the other boy knew, but when had Tom ever cared about anyone? Alphard cocked his head, sprawling on his four-poster bed.

"And you? Who's your favourite?" Tom asked, though not really sounding interested. It was the kind of question that is asked to keep up the conversation.

Alphard looked at him. His eyes roamed over his secretive companion, then he looked away, at the ceiling. "Belinda is alright," he said with a shrug.


	14. The Diary

**Chapter 14 : The Diary**

Hermione closed the door to her bedroom behind her. After a very long and confusing day of travel, filled with both trouble and insight, she still felt alert and tense. Being alone in her bedroom her made her calm down, as did the presence of known furniture, known smell, known books.

The events of the day made her feel as if something had suddenly fundamentally changed in her life. Now she wasn't just Hermione anymore, a witch, a talented student and Harry Potter's friend, but she was also a person with her own fate, something that didn't have anything to do with Harry. Today, she had met Ollivander, and he had revealed to her the secret of her wand : that she wasn't its first owner. The first owner had been an ancestor of Ollivander, a wand-maker as well, and Ollivander had indicated that this could mean that she was meant to be a wand-maker, too. He had given her the old diary of this man, but he had also given her something else: a possible future she would never have thought of for herself. A gift she hadn't known she possessed.

She empathised with Harry understanding what it's like to be destined for something not of her choosing. Not entirely comfortable but exciting.

She dropped her backpack on the bed, retrieved a small satchel of galleons and put them away with her other money. Then she took out the midnight-blue diary, which was wrapped in a faded flannel cloth.

She gently folded the dusty cloth and laid it aside. The diary lay cool and heavy in her hands, the silk as smooth as living skin. She stroked the cover as if it contained sacred advice. Then she opened it. Hermione had half expected to see the empty pages of blank white paper à la Tom Riddle's enchanted diary, and was relieved to discover pages and pages of writing.

The handwriting was smooth and elegant, with the elaborate style of long lost ages, making the book lover sigh involuntarily. It was also very narrow, as if written with a small and fine quill. There was no name or address inside, so when she read the first entry, she didn't even know the name of the writer. This is the owner of my wand, she thought, trying to see whether the thought would make her feel any different. It didn't.

_It is the second of May, in the year of 1767 and I have returned from France bringing with me this diary. – a gift from Uncle Isaac, it was given to me while I stayed at the lovely Academie de Beauxbatons. The Muggle population is suffering in dire conditions while I'm writing this, far worse than I had hitherto imagined. We were forced to move back to this our home country by the intervening plague ..._

Hermione flipped a few pages forward, until May, the 23rd.

_The course of events has kept me from continuing my regular entries. Last week, an owle from the ministry summoned me there, on behalf of a Department hitherto unknown to me. I asked my Uncle and my sister Marian about the ordeal and was advised to be cautious. The meeting took place in an office deep under the earthe, which made me feel like a gnome or a dwarf entering a mine!_

The wonders didn't stop though. The wizard to whose office I was brought to was indeed the great sorcerer Lord Yardley. I had last heard of him as being missing in India; great was my surprise to see him living and thriving underneath central London!  
"Master Bane – or may I call you Master Yorick? – welcome to the Department of Mysteries," the sorcerer said by way of greeting. I was flustered by this great man wanting to call me by my given name and of course agreed immediately.

So his name was Yorick Bane, Hermione mused. Not an Ollivander. And he had something to do with the Department of Mysteries! This was a very lucky coincidence, as she had been desperately searching for a book on this special department. Excitedly she read on. On the following pages, Yorick Bane accounted of his strange meeting with the sorcerer Lord Yardley, whom Hermione had never heard of before. She would look up his name as soon as possible. She also learned that Bane was obviously rather young; she got the impression that the man had only just left Hogwarts, that his parents seemed to be dead and that he was living with his older sister Marian at his Uncle Isaac's.

Lord Yardley made a thrilling proposition to the young wizard: to work at the Department of Mysteries, and to be initiated into the deepest secrets of Magic. He told at length – and Yorick repeated it at length – how Yorick was talented and of good blood. Hermione got the impression that this Lord Yardley was a rather fanatic pureblood. Then he made some enigmatic indications about the Department, and finally asked Yorick to become an apprentice.

Yorick got a fortnight's time to decide and returned to his uncle's home.

_I was excited to tell the news to my dear Uncle and sister – but when I came home, they were already in great commotion. My request about the reasons was met with this reply:_

"I'm going to marry!"

Yes, sweet Marion is going to marry. I was most surprised: the fiancé is the son of Ollivander, the wand-maker. This was most curious, and I was wondering how my sister got to know the man, that I forgot to tell about my own news.

The next fifteen pages were filled with Yorick's account of his sister and the Ollivander son, of the upcoming marriage and more such trivial things. Hermione began to wonder how Yorick Bane would ever become a wand maker: he sounded rather positive about going to the Department, and the Ollivander's obviously had a son to inherit the business. Also, Yorick expressed no interest at all in the trade; in fact he described it as:

_Dull and low by all observations, not worthy of a fully educated wizard. _

Finally, when the journal had almost reached July, 1767, there was another entry about the Department. Yorick agreed to the invitation and was initiated as an Unspeakable.

_Unspeakable is what I will call myself from now on, unspeakable because I can not tell any man about my business. I cannot tell my sister or my Uncle. I cannot even tell my best friends. From this day on I am not allowed to talk about what I will see and witness, and I will carry those unspeakable secrets with me into my grave._

He didn't even write what happened. Hermione was frustrated. He only gave hints, expressed his fascination and his fear. Because whatever it was Yorick Bane learned in the ministry, it seemed to frighten him. But he greatly admired his mentor, Lord Yardley, and still seemed to be very proud of himself. Sometimes he reminded Hermione of Percy Weasley, so eager he was to please his superiors.

+

After Lupin had left that afternoon, Harry felt energetic for the first time since Sirius' death. It was the feeling that something had given way, like a dam that breaks. The flood was harsh and powerful, but it also kept him alive.

He unpacked his clothes and then took his broom. A few minutes later, he knocked at the door to McGonagall's office.

"Just a minute," he heard her call from inside. Waiting, he stroked the polished wood of the broomstick, the beautiful patterns and the golden badge. So many of his happiest memories were tied to this broom. And now so much sadness, too, because whenever he looked at the firebolt, he thought of Sirius. Then the door was opened and McGonagall glanced down at him.

"Potter. Let me guess, it's about Quidditch. If you're worrying about that ugly toad's ban, forget it," she informed him with a cool voice but a mischievous glint in her eyes. Harry simply beamed at her.

"May I go out and practise, then?"

"I think that should be alright – but no flying away from the castle, Mr. Potter."

"Yes, Professor!" Harry called, and was already bolting down the stairs. She smiled after him.

"He'll make it," she whispered.

+  
"Just a minute Mom!"

Hermione flicked over the page, chewing at her lips. She was so close; she just had to read on...

"Darling? Are you coming?"

"I'm reading something important! Can I just eat later?"

Silence came from the hall, and Hermione looked down at the page again, finding the place where she had left off. The neat handwriting from the beginning of the journal had changed, now it was jittery, like Yorick Bane had been nervous, or writing in a hurry.

_I'm writing of secrets that no human mind shall perceive, but I cannot hold them inside me anymore. I have been permitted in the innermost sanctuary of the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries. I have sworn a wizard oath not to give away anything I shall learn here ... but how would I know how those secrets, unknown to me, would tear at my soul. My heart cries out for someone I could talk to in order to relieve this burden, but I have only these pages..._

Why do we never ask what happens to those unlucky, sinful individuals whom we judge to die? How are they executed? Wizards do not burn, are not drowned, and aren't poisoned or strangled as easily as Muggles. I reckoned it would be decapitation.

Upon my studying days, I once witnessed a judgement of the Wizengamot. The fellow, a slayer of Muggles and Wizards alike, was deemed to death, with the words that go like this: And thy soul shall not find rest in our realms, never shall slayer and slain be reunited, a veil of eternity shall part them. But I did not know then, what such punishment entailed and that the Veil was not a metaphor.

Hermione shivered. The Veil. She had wanted to read something about the veil, and now she was obviously very close to doing so. But what was the secret of the veil? What was its use, why was it positioned in that theatre-like room?

_A day hence the estimated Lord Yardley told me that our usual routine – as you remember we were working in the Room of Time – would be disturbed by a "veiling". I demanded an explanation but he simply smiled one of those smiles he gives me whenever he introduces me to something new and exciting._

I was led into a room with rows of stone benches, like the Amphitheatres we saw in France and Italy. Other members of the Department, as well as the Judges of the Wizengamot were seated. In the centre stood a dais with an arch, and a veil hung from it. It was moving in a strange breeze.

I sat patiently, waiting for whatever spectacle to take place, when a couple of hooded men brought in a screaming, struggling man. He wore a blindfold, and was unable to see the veil he was led towards, but I have never seen anybody so frightened. I was in great trouble and asked my neighbour, Lord Yardley:

"Who is that fellow? What has he done?"

"Silas Vince. He has violated the law of wizard secrecy and caused a witch hunt in Norfolk. A Muggle was hung and two cats were burnt."

The struggling wizard was led to the dais and his blindfold was removed. He stared at the veil in abject horror, pleading for mercy – but one of the executioners put a muting charm on him. Then he was pushed through the veil – and his body vanished from the spot.

Hermione frowned. This person, Silas Vince, had made a mistake and a Muggle had died. Not to talk of the two cats. But that wasn't a reason for death penalty! Not for the first time she disagreed strongly with wizarding law. She read on.

_I was quite shaken by this display, and it took me a while to recover, but then I asked Lord Yardley the pressing question: "What is behind the veil?"_

"Behind the veil is hell, Bane. Eternal punishment. Penance for your sins. Behind the veil is hell, where the souls of the damned suffer without hope or end."

Oh! How can we do that? How can we pass the judgement only higher powers may pass? Eternity is not for humankind to touch. But I have sworn allegiance to the ministry. I am an unspeakable and cannot back out of this contract...

Hermione couldn't continue reading. The letter became blurry before her eyes and her chest was tight and hurting. Tears ran down her cheeks and she sobbed.

+

Harry stayed in the air until he had to return for supper. He completely drowned his mind in the blue sky and the sun and the air, until he was a bird, until he was the sky itself. When he came down to the Great Hall after a quick shower, his head felt as if it had been wiped clean and was now ready to refill.

Around the teacher's table, a smaller number of people sat. Dumbledore and McGonagall were both in a brighter mood than they had been in for a while now. Short Professor Flitwick sat with them, next to the enormous Hagrid who beamed over at Harry. On the other end sat Nurse Pomfrey and Trelawney, wrapped in a ridiculous number of paisley shawls. Professor Snape's chair was curiously empty, as if he was expected but hadn't yet arrived. Also empty was the part of the table, where Hooch, Sinistra, and the teachers for Ancient Runes and Muggle studies usually sat. They probably had left for a holiday or to visit their families. Harry was offered the vacant chair of the teacher of Defence against the Dark Arts. A little flustered, he sat down. Although he had already dined at the teacher's table during the Triwizard Tournament, it still felt strange.

"Can we Gryffindors be optimistic about the next Quidditch season, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked in a not quite so serious voice.

"I hope so," Dumbledore added with a mock smile of concern, "as Minerva has just informed me that you'll be team captain next year."

All teachers turned around, watching Harry, who in turn gawked at the headmaster and deputy headmistress. He had tried to forget Quidditch since the ban, and since the fight in the Ministry he hadn't thought about it at all. Now it dawned on him that he had actually been quite stupid not to do so. That the ban would be undone was quite logical now that Umbridge was gone. And since he wasn't a prefect, after all ...

"Well, Mr Potter?"

"I – that- thank you Professors!" Harry could have hugged McGonagall right now. Quidditch captain was far better than being a prefect or Head Boy . It would be a hell of stress to train the new team, but he would just love it. He would play again, this time with both Ron and Ginny on his team. And he had also the strong feeling that this would have made Sirius and his father much prouder than if he became Head Boy. He was too happy to eat or talk for a while.

"Great for ye', Harry," Hagrid grinned into his black beard.

"Of course I always saw the potential, Potter," Trelawney eagerly added. "Written in the stars it is, great fame." McGonagall threw her a pitiful look over her spectacles.

"So who'll be on your new team?" Flitwick asked. Harry tried to organise his thoughts.

"Well ... Katie and Ron, Ginny Weasley will try out as Chaser ... we'll have to replace Fred and George and Alicia. A lot of try-outs. I think the Creeveys might make good Beaters ..."

Harry drifted off and finally dug into his food. While eating potatoes, he listened to Flitwick and McGonagall quietly discussing OWL and NEWT grades.

"When will we know how many OWLs we get?" Harry asked.

"Owls notifying the students will be sent out this week. You can get yours at my office on Saturday," the head of Gryffindor house replied. "You did well, especially considering the circumstances."

Harry didn't know what to say and looked down at his plate. The first exhilaration about becoming Quidditch captain had subsided, and now he thought about his OWLs. How good was good, considering the circumstances? He had done horribly in Divination and not well enough in Potions, he had only filled out a third of his star charts in Astronomy and he had completely flunked History of Magic. Now, there weren't any parents with expectations to worry about, but what about his plans to become an Auror? Suddenly Harry found that he didn't feel very enthusiastic about it. When he had planned his career, his future had seemed intangible, like an adventurous but thoroughly fantastic story you imagine...

Probably he shouldn't worry about that any more. His future was not to become an Auror. His future was to kill Voldemort or be killed. With a dazed feeling in his head, Harry looked up, stared into the distance and then at Dumbledore, who was chatting amiably with Flitwick.

To kill Voldemort or be killed...

Didn't he know before the prophecy that Voldemort was his sworn enemy? Didn't he know before that Voldemort wanted desperately to kill him? So why did this stupid prophecy change it all so much?

Everything appeared to be at a distance from him, the sounds muted by a thick mist. Dying ... he had thought so much about death since Sirius had died, but not once about his own death. Did he really believe in meeting his parents again, somewhere behind the veil or above the clouds? He remembered the distant voices behind the veil, the beckoning, sweet voices ... but did he really want to follow their call? What about his friends, what about growing up? Suddenly a terrible fear seized him, a fear of death he hadn't known he possessed, as if there was nothing worse than death, nothing at all. His mind felt as if it was possessed by the thought. He shivered.

No, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live, to fly, to do magic, and to be with Ron and Hermione. He wanted to do his NEWTs, to leave the Dursleys, and to have his own flat. He wanted to avenge his parents and Sirius. He wanted so much ... so much which death couldn't offer.

What did Voldemort want?

Power.

How could the hunger for power keep you alive? How could it sustain a wishing being, how could it make you want to go on? Harry couldn't imagine that. Wasn't it natural that he should win? Because of the two of them, only he really wanted to _live_. Voldemort didn't want to die – but he wasn't interested in life either.

But what could he do? He couldn't do magic like Voldemort could. He couldn't fight, couldn't kill, and couldn't even use the Unforgivable Curses. He didn't know what Voldemort knew; he was stuck in the school, while Voldemort could go everywhere and gain even more powers. Voldemort had an army of cruel wizards and witches, and what did Harry have ? A couple of untrained kids, brave but powerless.

He had a power the Dark Lord knows not. What was that? Love? Well, if Voldemort was going to be defeated by the power of love ... Harry grimaced.

Suddenly he realised the piercing look of Dumbledore's eyes on him. The wizened wizard smiled over the table at Harry.

"He will be," he said enigmatically to Harry, and strangely no one seemed to hear him but Harry.

"But ... I can't just sit around and wait for it," Harry answered. Time seemed to have stopped around them.

"Probably not. But I don't think that's a big problem now, is it? I have seen that you have the initiative and heart to learn what it is you need to do. Maybe you would like a more experienced teacher?" Dumbledore winked at him.

"I do – very much, I think, Professor." Harry rarely asked his teachers for anything, but this was an offer he couldn't decline. Maybe he would disappoint Dumbledore. But he had to try. He had learned that last year, when he had failed to learn the vital lesson Snape tried to teach him. Admittedly, Snape didn't try very hard. But in the end, it was Harry's fault.

"Well, how about we meet after dinner? I'll have to leave for a meeting in Copenhagen around midnight, but before that, why not take the time we've got?" Dumbledore suggested lightly.

"Yes, Professor," Harry quickly said. "Thank you," he added. Dumbledore's cheerful expression changed, but only a fraction.

"You don't have to thank me, Harry," he answered gently. "I'm offering this too late and what I offer may not be of great value. But I don't want to make the same mistake twice..."


	15. Coincidence

**Chapter 15 : Coincidence**

The sheets of parchment were still tumbling through the air.

Tom was in a girl's bathroom, but he didn't care. He had been here before and he would come here again. He was the Lord of Hogwarts. He was the Heir of Slytherin. He had entered the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed the King of Serpents. Now he was not only a lord by means of anagrams, but lord by his own deeds.

Still, the sheets of parchments were floating to the ground around him, like the yellow leaves of a tree in fall. Time had come to halt, as if somebody had disturbed its steady flow.

The light falling into the bathroom through the high, glass-paned windows was unnaturally bright. It highlighted every shape in the room and was brightly reflected by the puddles of water on the grey stone floor and blinded him with its pure brightness. The image of these few seconds, their dazzling brightness and the sound of rustling paper would forever be burned into his memory.

The parchment fell into the water, swimming on the surface like square water lilies. They didn't belong to him, those sheets, and the ink blurring on the parchment wasn't his, either. He had seen a glimpse of the chubby fingers which had written those words...

The silence was short and perfect. For a tiny moment, when all the sheets had fluttered to the ground, the girl's bathroom was as quiet and sombre as a cathedral.

Then the door of the stall creaked once more. It startled Tom out of his awe, and time was moving forward restlessly once more.

"Go home! Hide!" he hissed at the King of Serpents. The basilisk raised its blunt head menacingly, but it didn't dare to look at its master, for the deathly stare would have killed the Heir. It slithered to the hidden entrance of the Chamber of Secrets, hissing to Tom in parseltongue and then slipped away, to the bowels of Hogwarts. Finally they were alone: Tom and the dead girl.

Tom stared at the creaking, swinging door. He could just walk away now. It would be safer. She had shrieked one short piercing wail before she died. Somebody might have heard it.

But the door was still swinging, beckoning him closer.

He walked up to it like a man in a trance, yet carefully avoiding the puddles of water, like a child who avoids stepping onto the dark stones in the pavement. The light from the outside made them as bright and reflective as mirrors.

The door had stopped swinging when Tom reached it. He had seen her standing right there, when she had opened the door of the stall. She looked out with her owlish eyes behind thick glasses to see who was making all that noise. Her wet lips formed a surprised 'o' and then she shrieked, just once, and not very loudly. The basilisk looked straight into her eyes, and she dropped backwards with a dull noise, like a bag of wet clothes falling to the floor.

Tom raised his hand and touched the wooden door. It was as warm under his touch as a living thing, warmed by the bright sunshine falling onto it. Quietly, he opened it.

He could still imagine her as she fell backwards in a graceless lump, vanishing behind the creaking toilet door. He replayed the scene in his mind: she heard him talk to the King of Serpents. He remembered jumping slightly when he had heard her annoyed complaint from one of the stalls. Then she had ripped the door open, presumably to yell at him.

"This -!" she only had managed to bring out in a high-pitched whine. Then she was startled, letting go of her papers, which still fluttered around in the air even when she was dead a second later. The basilisk had turned around to look at her. Killing her with one look from his deathly eyes.

For the very first time since Tom had found the Chamber of Secrets, the basilisk had killed a person. Salazar Slytherin had hidden the deathly beast in the Chamber so that his Heir would hunt down the Mudbloods that infested the Hogwarts. Tom had tried to do this and caused quite a wave of panic throughout the school when one Mudblood after another was petrified. But this girl was not petrified. He knew that she was dead, although he couldn't tell why. It was the first time they had killed.

But Tom had not thought that she would die so slowly. Because that one moment seemed to last forever, when she looked at them in surprise mingled with fear and he had looked equally surprised at her. He hadn't expected her to be there. It hadn't occurred to him that he would look into her eyes while she died. He could actually see someone dying – not just dead.

He also had not expected that death would look so graceless and mundane. A fat little girl in a toilet stall, her pimpled cheeks on the wet tiles: that was not the noble work of heroes.

Tom knew he should leave as there was nothing more to do here in the bathroom. People would be coming, eventually, even if they hadn't heard her scream. The Chamber of Secrets was closed. There were no clues of his presence here to erase. Why then was he still here? What did he want to do?

He just wanted to look at her a little more, to see if he would find the greatness he was missing.

She wasn't just ugly; she was horrible. In spite of that he found her more pleasant to look at than all those posing, painted, pretty witches who were constantly around him. She was so quiet. She would never annoy him with any superficial drivel; never would she cling to him that way.

Her image in his mind would always be ready whenever he wanted to look at it. He would be able to confide in a girl like her because she'd never ever tell a soul. She wouldn't bother him with scruples and emotions, for she had none. She was already as cold as a stone. This girl he pictured in his mind was her and not yet her, it was only a figment of his imagination and yet he felt close to her. But it had always been like that: his only friends were imaginary friends.

What he saw in her was something greater than a dead body on wet tiles. He knew her death had more meaning than met the eye. Just like there was more to him than met the eye. When people looked at her, they saw only a plump girl with lank dark hair with pimples on her face and glasses in need of repair on her nose. When people looked at him, they saw just a boy from an orphanage, a meaningless Half-Blood.

He wasn't sure in what way they both had more meaning, and now he knew why he wanted to stay just a little while longer: to find out what all of this really meant.

Tom kneeled down next to her, carefully not touching the dirty ground. He pushed at her shoulder and she sagged to the right side. Why was she important?

_Because she was the first Mudblood the Heir of Slytherin killed,_ a ready voice inside him supplied.

But was she even a Mudblood? Her death had been but a coincidence. It could have been anyone, lying there on the floor. It could have been him...

He pictured himself, limp and cold on a floor like this, his legs and arms at odd angles, his black hair spilled over his forehead, his eyes closed – or perhaps open and unseeing, nothing but a coincidence in world without meaning.

A coincidence without meaning ...

Tom froze.

For a moment he saw clearly why he and she were alike, and it was like falling into darkness. And then he bolted up, dashing through the room. He ran through the puddles, slipped on the wet parchment, caught himself and ran on. The light from outside blinded him and the banging of the toilet door was like a thunderclap, like the judgmental voice of fate behind him as he left the bathroom, and still in his ears for hours to come.

From that day on, Tom Riddle's Boggart held the shape of a dead body on a wet tiled floor.


	16. Dumbledore's Worst Memory

**Chapter Sixteen : Dumbledore's Worst Memory**

Harry and Professor Dumbledore had reached the stone gargoyle and mounted the stairs to the office together. Harry was now almost as familiar with the office as with any classroom. It was a place of very mixed feelings and memories. Mostly he had been here when he was in trouble, or when bad things happened. Here he had learned about the prophecy, he had felt the first shock and anger about Sirius' death. But on the other hand it was the place where Dumbledore was to be found, a sanctuary and a place of fascinating things like Fawkes and the Pensieve.

Fawkes sat on his perch, a little less beautiful than usual as he had just been recently reborn and was now growing up. He squawked cheerfully at Harry. The beautiful bird remembered him of everything that was good about Dumbledore: that he gave people hope and protected them and cheered them up with his words as did Fawkes with his song. Harry was able to see that now. He had always trusted Dumbledore and that was why he had felt so deceived when Dumbledore had not been able to save Sirius and when he had revealed the secret prophecy.

The portraits were not all in their frames, but those, who were, greeted Dumbledore in a friendly manner and threw curious glances at the student who was here during the summer.

"You must be the only student who manages to cause trouble even in the summer," Phineas Nigellus drawled, but instead of feeling annoyed at the portrait, Harry felt a sudden surge of affection for him. He was a relative of Sirius and Harry couldn't be fooled to believe that Nigellus had hated his Great-great-grandson so much, when he remembered his shocked reaction to Sirius death.

"Harry hasn't caused trouble," Dumbledore explained kindly.

"Hi," Harry said sheepishly. Phineas scoffed and turned away, vanishing in the dark background of his painting.

"Sit down please." Harry sat down in the soft chair and looked around. The Sorting Hat, Gryffindor's sword, the silver instruments, and even the things he had destroyed in his surge of anger a few weeks before was in its rightful place. Where was that anger now? He wasn't feeling it anymore. There was only the nagging question of why Dumbledore – and everybody else – hadn't seen what kind of a dangerous mood Sirius had been in. So much could have been prevented if he wasn't confined at Grimmauld Place all year!

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk and folded his hands, peering over them at Harry. His expression was thoughtful but gentle.

"Harry, you probably feel that you failed to learn Occlumency. But I think you really cannot be blamed. I was wrong to expect you to learn it so easily, and I was certainly wrong to believe that Professor Snape would be willing to teach you."

Harry felt Dumbledore's all-knowing eyes on him like hot coals. Yet he couldn't keep himself from saying, "Snape hates me. Although... now I think I know why."

"Is that so?" Dumbledore asked, raising a brow.

Harry bit his lip. Dumbledore would hate him for this – but probably he already knew it.

"I saw one of Snape's memories. A memory of my father." Dumbledore looked strangely at him, and not a little astonished. He didn't seem to have known this before. But now Harry couldn't take back what he had already revealed.

"In Professor Snape's mind?"

"In his Pensieve," Harry admitted guiltily. This time, he couldn't read the look on the headmaster's face at all. He took it as a bad sign.

"Harry, a Pensieve is a very private thing. It's more than a diary. I may have allowed you to look into mine in the past, but maybe I should have been more careful. You've got to learn to respect other people's secrets. Otherwise I cannot teach you Legilimency."

It was like a verbal slap. Never had Dumbledore so seriously reprimanded him. And Harry didn't know what to say. Of course, Dumbledore was right. He knew shouldn't have looked into Snape's pensieve.

"Harry?" Dumbledore's eyes bore into his. "Do you understand this? This is what Voldemort does. He abuses his powers and breaks into people's minds. He tears out their innermost secrets, feasts on their fears and possesses them."

"But..! But ... yes, Sir." Harry lowered his head. "I promise not to do it again."

Dumbledore nodded. "I know that you're not like Voldemort. Voldemort tries to find out people's weaknesses to be able to use them – you were just overly curious."

The old wizard sighed and stroked his beard. "It's kind of hard to ask you to be so responsible. Your father certainly wasn't responsible at that age, neither was Professor Snape – nor even I!" Dumbledore chuckled quietly.

"Oh no, I wasn't responsible at all. Did you know that Nicholas Flamel threw me out on the street because he couldn't stand me anymore? At the time, of course, I confused being responsible with being boring and serious." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at his memories, and he seemed to be very far away with his mind.

"I was nearly a hundred years old before I completely managed Occlumency and Legilimency which both require a lot of concentration and discipline."

Harry couldn't quite believe this. Dumbledore? Who could do just about everything..? Even Snape had learned these things far more quickly, and Voldemort also wasn't much older than sixty-something and was master at it. And he, Harry, was supposed to learn them at fifteen! Again he realised how much he didn't know about Dumbledore. Of course, his headmaster hadn't always been a wise old teacher. There was the fleeting memory of Tom Riddle's diary, yet that was as clear and familiar in his mind as if it were his own: of a younger Dumbledore with auburn hair and beard. Yet who that person really was, was still a riddle to him. Harry sighed.

"I just don't see how I can defeat Voldemort! I mean ... he's had so much time to learn and prepare ... and how does one defeat an evil wizard, anyway? I mean, that may sound stupid, but how do I do it? It's not as if anybody has told me yet. It's not the stuff we learn in classes. How did you defeat Grindelwald?"

A smile had begun to build on Dumbledore's face during Harry's outbreak, but at the mention of Grindelwald it suddenly faltered.

Virtually everything Harry knew about Grindelwald was the one sentence on Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog Card. Dumbledore is also famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945. He had only a vague idea of Dumbledore battling a villainous old wizard, much like Dumbledore's duel with Voldemort that he saw a few weeks ago. They hadn't yet covered any of this in History of Magic – either that or he had slept through it.

"Usually, when I'm asked about Grindelwald by reporters or textbook writers, or even Chocolate Frog Card makers," Dumbledore said with a wink, "I just tell them to use their artistic license. It's not the kind of story people want to hear about their heroes... and there's not much to be learned from it. I set out to save a man, but in the end I was nothing but a terrified, helpless man. It was luck that saved me.. and hope."

Dumbledore paused, and then went on. "But maybe this is the kind of story I should tell you. You must know Dark Magic is not vanquished or defeated by heroic deeds, in the end, only our heart can save us, Harry, like it saved you when Voldemort possessed you."

"The story of Grindelwald began during what the Muggles called World War One. You are sufficiently aware of Muggle history, aren't you?" Harry nodded. He didn't have that many Muggle history classes before he went to Hogwarts, but he knew his share from books and movies.

"Grindelwald was a British wizard, and a patriot. He wanted the wizarding community to take part in the war, but that would have meant that we wouldn't have been living in secrecy anymore. So Grindelwald went to fight in the war as an ordinary soldier. He became a Muggle doctor, and saved many lives – but just as many died under his hands and on the battlefield and those who survived had injuries not even magic could cure. He saw how the viciousness of war could corrupt innocent people but was not aware of how it was affecting him. He became a bitter man, lost his belief in mankind, but stayed fascinated with Muggle medicine and science."

"Did you know him?" Harry asked.

"Oh no. I didn't meet him till 1945. During the First World War I was in India and China working with Nicholas. It was before he threw me out on the street. Which happened in 1927. I was a reckless and whimsical person, gifted with way too many talents and given too few challenges. Nicholas Flamel wasn't the first to take such drastic action with me. I gave the people from the Department of Mysteries quite a scare back in the 1870s." He chuckled.

"But back to Grindelwald. When the Second World War started, Grindelwald again petitioned for an intervention. But he gave up fairly quickly when he didn't succeed. He disappeared from public life soon afterwards. He wanted to change humanity, to create a new, better kind of wizard. A kind of wizard that would be unable to die under his hands or kill each other, a kind of wizard that would be immortal and flawless. But in his search for the necessary power to create such beings, he combined the worst of science and magic."

Now, Harry's mental image of Grindelwald changed. He became less like Voldemort and more like a mad scientist from an old Muggle movie. Dumbledore went on with his story. While he was talking, his gaze rested on Fawkes most of the time.

"At the end of the war, in 1944, more than a hundred wizards went missing from everywhere in Britain, but mostly in London. Our community panicked. But I, far away at Hogwarts, wasn't all that concerned until a friend of mine vanished as well. Hector had gone to school with me, and we were very close. So I investigated his disappearance. My search lead me to the London Underground ."

"Armed only with a map of the Underground and my wand, I went into the labyrinth. After a very long time, I found him, in an unused part of the tubes: Grindelwald. I didn't recognise him but when I discovered who he was, I challenged him to a duel, confident that I would win easily. He refused to battle me though, instead he tried to win me over with logical explanations and flattery. I followed him inside to his underground laboratory, where he had combined the high technology of Muggle science with Magic and was working on a new race of human beings."

Suddenly, an image flashed in Harry mind that hadn't come from his own imagination.

_...a fair-haired wizard on a metal gurney, staring at the ceiling with dead, unseeing eyes... a hole in his chest ... darkness spilling out of his heart... a fountain of blackness ... indescribable fear ...  
And Dumbledore in shock with no thought at all but to stop this torture…with fierce eyes and still holding a map of the London Underground, he whisked out his wand and aimed at a furtive elderly wizard, but before he could speak, a spell hit him, burning the map into the flesh of his knee ... throwing him down on the floor... and still the indescribably darkness poured out of the fair-haired man's open heart ... _

Harry recoiled in his seat, stifling a gasp. The icy feeling of despair he had when he saw that man with the darkness flooding out of his heart had felt like the presence of a Dementor, but a hundred-times worse. Dumbledore was looking at him with haunted blue eyes. Harry wasn't sure if the old wizard was really seeing him.

"What was that?" Harry asked uncomfortably.

"That was my friend Hector, as I found him in Grindelwald's laboratory. And with him more than a hundred other wizards and witches, mutilated in the same way. They weren't human anymore. Their hearts were infused with darkness, their souls had been turned inside out ... in his quest for an enhanced human race, Grindelwald had created horrible monsters. Immortal they were, indestructible, unfeeling ... he had created the Dementors, Harry."

"The Dementors were human once?" Harry felt sick. Dumbledore nodded gravely.

"All of them. Grindelwald had made a pact with a powerful demon. This demon had been created by all the fear, pain and hatred men have felt during those wars that Grindelwald hated so much. The demon promised to help him, but in reality it poisoned Grindelwald's soul. He fed all the souls of those poor witches and wizards to the demon, and they were made into lesser demons themselves. Of course, I was horrified. It was the first time I met true evil. I tried to fight Grindelwald, but he had already lured me into his trap."

_... the younger Dumbledore, caught in a cubic glass cage, unable to do magic, strapped onto a metal gurney, screaming in rage and fear... Grindelwald came inside, shaved his head and beard until Dumbledore himself looked like a corpse... he was alone in the cage ... the only thing he could see was a flicker of red and gold in the corner of his eye ... _

Again, Harry gasped for air, when he was released from the memory. His head shot around and he looked at Fawkes, who sat serenely on his perch.

"There was a Phoenix in Grindelwald's lab!" he called out.

"It was Fawkes, Harry. That was where I met him for the first time. He belonged to Grindelwald for many years, and was almost as loyal to him as he is to me. Grindelwald sold that first feather to Ollivander, who made Tom Riddles' wand out of it. I donated the second feather, many years later. In the beginning, Grindelwald was a white wizard, but then...he should have died rather than cause such senseless suffering, but as I said the demon he made a pact with had poisoned his mind and heart", and again Dumbledore channelled Harry a glimpse of his memory.

_... there was a hissing sound inside the glass cage... suddenly the ground of the glass cube started to fill with a black smoke or gas. Dumbledore on the gurney struggled against his restraints but he couldn't move... the smoke rose higher... Dumbledore yelled in terror as he laid on the gurney... the black smoke touched his hands and arms, and yet it rose higher, threatening to fill the whole cage... It touched his chest and Dumbledore was desperately trying to raise his head just a little bit, so he wouldn't have to breathe in the smoke, for it would kill him, surely... And there was the glimpse of red feathers again, outside the glass cube, and a faint note of song... tears were running down Dumbledore's face and when they met the smoke they froze... _

"A few minutes later, I would have died." Dumbledore's voice brought Harry back to the present.

"The darkness was meant to turn me into a Dementor, too, but I think I had too much white magic in me. To have my soul corrupted so terribly would have killed me in an instant. And so it did. But while I died, I listened to Fawkes song of compassion and it carried me far away from my fear and pain. In the same moment that I died, I turned into my Animagus for the first time: a Phoenix."

The haunted look had vanished from Dumbledore face. His eyes were twinkling brightly behind half-moon glasses. They were full of emotion as he stared at Fawkes.

"Instead of dying, I burst into flames and became ash, and out of the ash I was reborn, just like the real phoenix. That was how I survived the cage and the smoke – and what happened after that I barely remember. I must have gone completely mad from fright, because when I was found by Medi-wizards and Aurors a few hours later, a giant magical explosion had destroyed Grindelwald's underground lab and himself. The only survivors were me, Fawkes, and the hundred or more freshly-made Dementors."

"Doesn't that mean that you're immortal?" Harry asked alarmedly.

Dumbledore smiled and shrugged. "I don't know, Harry. We'll see, won't we? But when death comes, I won't fear it. I'm old; I have seen many of my friends age and die. I have no desire for immortality."

Harry thought he understood. When he had heard those voices behind the Veil, he too had thought that death might not be so bad after all.

"Why did they make the Dementors the wards of Azkaban?" Harry asked. It didn't seem very logical to him.

"Well, they were immortal, inhuman and dangerous. They were also an unbearable presence – well you know that. So people didn't want them to walk around everywhere in London. And some ingenious wizard from the Ministry made the suggestion to bring them to the island of Azkaban and make it the new high-security prison. Some fifty years before, the wizard death-penalty had been abolished –", Dumbledore paused a moment in his explanation, as if he wanted to add something, but then he went on.

"It was convenient. People had been asking for a stricter punishment for ages. I would have protested, but for some years after the incident, I wasn't able to do so. I spent many months recovering in St. Mungo's. They even consulted Muggle psychology. Severe shock and post-traumatic stress, the Muggle doctors said. But I had friends who helped me recover. Fawkes here and Professor McGonagall, my brother –"

But before Dumbledore could finish the sentence, the flames in the grate went green, and someone stumbled through the fire.

+

"Severus, what happened? I haven't seen you for days!"

Harry watched as Dumbledore jumped from his seat, all sentimentality gone. He rushed to the grate to pick up a dust-covered and swaying Snape. The potions master looked worse than ever. The knuckles on both his hands were bruised and bleeding. His sallow face was coated in a wet sheen, his hair damp.

Snape shook his head when Dumbledore tried to help him into an armchair but didn't answer. He smelled slightly of a sharp alcohol. Finally he let himself fall into the chair.

It was the first time Harry saw Snape since the end of his fifth year. The seething hate for the man was still there, worse than ever. He blamed Snape for Sirius' death and he hated to see how worried Dumbledore was about the man. Had Dumbledore ever worried about Sirius like that?

But the worst of his hatred was subdued by his curiosity. What was up with his Potions teacher? Snape was a horrible person, but he usually kept his composure. Being drunk was very unlike him, Harry thought. And it reminded him painfully of the fact that Sirius had sometimes been drinking, too, and that confused him. But Sirius had been drinking because of his frustration and pain. What reasons could Snape have to drink? He was a miserable git and probably no one liked him, but that was his own fault.

"Lord Voldemort," Snape said in a hollow voice that seemed to echo in the room. Harry caught himself staring at Snape but couldn't stop himself. What about Lord Voldemort? He willed Snape to continue, but Snape didn't seem very coherent.

"I'm sorry, Severus. I wish I –" Dumbledore started to apologise. Why did Dumbledore have to apologise?

"I'm sorry too. For myself." Snape groaned bitterly. Harry got the impression that Snape hadn't noticed him yet.

"I think you should see Poppy," Dumbledore suggested, totally ignoring Harry as well.

"See Poppy? Damn –"Snape sagged forward and buried his head in his hands with an angry, exhausted snort. He had completely lost control, just like in Third Year, when Sirius had escaped, but now he was less angry and more despaired. Shaking his still hanging head, so that his black hair tumbled around him in a lank curtain, he said:

"I'm drunk, that's all. You know I never drink. I can't believe I'm drunk."

And somehow, this statement shocked Harry. He had never heard Snape sound so human and vulnerable. He realised that it was because Snape hadn't spotted him yet that he was being so open.

+

Dumbledore felt the urge to comfort, to at least put a hand on Severus' shoulder or say something. But he dared not touch the man. Snape hated physical contact unless he himself initiated it, as much as he hated showing weakness. And he certainly detested his current state of inebriation. His statement was true; he never drank, not even when life was hard on him. He wasn't the kind of person who tries to drown sorrows in drugs because that would be admitting to have them.

The reason for all that was Snape's twisted combination of stubborn pride and low self-confidence. And even deeper than that, was the hate for his own father. What his father called stern discipline others called cruel punishments. Since Snape's father was known to be drunk all the time Severus was especially careful not to drink.

Had it been the murder of Karkaroff that had disturbed Snape so much? Or something that had happened during his meeting with Voldemort?

Dumbledore procured a sobering potion which cured effects from spells and potions as well as ordinary drugs. It was useless to try and comfort the man, as he would feel mortified in front of Potter.

"Take that." Snape drained the vial, leaving his eyes closed for a moment, looking drained himself.

"It's all about Potter again, isn't it?" Snape seemed to be returning to his usual, sober and sour self again. "Tell me – how could I ever become the servant of a supposedly Dark Lord who gets all crazy over James Potter's offspring?" he asked in a mocking voice.

Dumbledore raised a brow but was glad to have restored the usual Snape. He was also glad that Harry, although looking angry, was not loosing his temper yet.

"Voldemort tried to attack Harry, but we were prepared," he explained to Snape, who hadn't been at Hogwarts during the last days and knew nothing of the assault on Privet Drive. Snape didn't seem too interested.

"I'm sure that boy would have found a way to survive. He does so to spite me," Snape mumbled.

"He's figured out the blood problem," Dumbledore added, as to get him interested. Snape nodded; he still was not quite able to concentrate properly. He should send Harry away, Dumbledore knew, but he was waiting for the right moment.

"The rebirth ritual. Potter's blood. Well, I do understand his rage now. He was so close to being able to kill him and it didn't work," mused the potions teacher. Dumbledore turned around at Harry.

"Harry, would you please leave Professor Snape and me alone? We'll continue the day after tomorrow."

Snape almost jumped from his chair, and whirled around in a second, realising that Harry was present. Dumbledore instantly realised his mistake. He should have warned Snape not to let his guard down so much. Now Snape would feel mortified and furious. Harry also looked scared.

"_Potter_," Snape hissed. "Why are you gawking at me like that? Don't like what you see? I thought you loved to pry into other people's private affairs?"

Harry seemed unable to answer, and Snape got even more heated up. He suddenly stood before Harry's chair, menacingly. Dumbledore wanted to intervene, but by doing so would have embarrassed Snape even more.

"What is it? Answer me, boy! But you can't, can you? You're too much of a coward!"

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Snape went on. He was pale and shaking, as always when he lost control. Harry flinched away from his gesticulating hands.

"You're an ungracious brat! You think everything is about you, but did you ever consider being grateful? Always it's Potter, Potter, Potter, everywhere I go! Even _Lord Voldemort_ talks about nothing else! Get out of my sight!" And Harry did jump from his chair, pale at Snape's fury.

"Why is it my fault?" he cried. "I didn't ask for all this!"

"GO! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

"_Stop it_!" Dumbledore suddenly said, and he said it with such a volume and authority that both of them stopped instantly. "Harry, please leave us alone. We'll see each other the day after tomorrow."

Harry said nothing. He nodded curtly at Dumbledore and left, but obviously was resentful at being sent away like this and angry at Snape. The Headmaster turned to the man.

"Calm down, will you please? He has told me about what happened between the both of you. Be assured that I have chastised him." That was an overstatement, Dumbledore felt, but would hopefully satisfy Snape.

His spy said nothing in response. Snape just smoothened out his black robes and sat down again, his face stony and bitter, his black eyes glittering with repressed anger.

+

"I brought Voldemort Karkaroff's wand, but he was occupied with something else. He seemed extremely frustrated at something and hexing random people."

Snape was reporting about his last meeting with Voldemort, the first since he had killed the Headmaster of Durmstrang. What Dumbledore had told him about Voldemort's attempt to kill Potter explained the rage of the Dark Lord. But right now, Snape would have preferred to think of neither of them.

"Have you been reaccepted in his inner circle?"

Ever since Voldemort's resurrection, Snape's status had been more than difficult. He had hoped to restore his trust by killing Igor. But his answer remained a shrug. He didn't fool himself into believing he knew what was going on in Voldemort's head.

"It's not like the Dark Lord tells me things like that. But yes, I think he trusts me, or at least is assured of my fear of him. It's hard to tell."

"What else did you notice? Who was there?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange, Pettigrew and a lot of new faces – he's recruiting again. Young people, mostly not British."

"And Voldemort himself?"

Snape remained silent for a long instant. He pushed a stray hair out of his face, and stared at the empty portrait frames. None of them were allowed to stay when Snape reported and they had quietly left with Potter.

Voldemort had been most peculiar. This meeting had been the first time the Dark Lord had really talked to him since the year in which he had tried to steal the Stone, when Snape had to keep up a semblance of loyalty without really helping Voldemort. Since his resurrection, Snape had attended Death Eater meetings, but the only thing Voldemort had done was to punish him. But now Voldemort was back in power and interested in what Snape had to offer. He showed that interested by prying into his servant's mind and torturing him there, a thing he always liked to do with his followers. But unlike most of them, Snape was able to mask his secrets and see some of Voldemort's own.

"He's different," he finally answered. "The Dark Lord is ... not a person anymore. There's nothing left of his elegance, his brilliance. He's become void, single-minded."

Dumbledore leaned closer, finally interested. "Tell me more about that, Severus."

"Most of his first followers, the first Death Eater generation, were attracted by his charisma, his brilliant mind, his personality. He was everything the pureblood aristocrats and would-be aristocrats had aspired to: refined manners, a cultivated evil mastermind, an inspiring leader, a great wizard. He perfected Slytherin virtues. He made you fear him – but it was a delicious fear, fear mingled with adoration. He managed to make us love him."

Snape laughed dryly. "Now only a deranged loon like Bellatrix Lestrange could feel love for him. There's only the fear that remains. The new followers are different, too, no class, they're working-class wizards, the unemployed, the frustrated, the dull."

"But he's still as powerful as before."

"More than that. I'd say... he consists only of magic. Magic without a character, without real feelings, without humanity. He's not a wizard anymore. And something else: it feels different now, when he invades my mind. Like he's somehow less. As if he's lost essence."

Snape looked up and perceived a look of triumph and awe in Dumbledore's bright eyes. He'd seen that look before. He just wished it would have consequences some time soon...

+

_The snow was so soft and deep that Harry sunk into it with every step. It was grey, like dust, like ashes, like burnt bones ..._

Was it snow? Was it bones? Was it ground teeth?

The quicksilver sky hurled thunder at him, thunder and snowy ashes, whipped ice into his face. He couldn't go on, he was frozen on the spot, the storm would throw him down, and he would drown in the ashes. His feet were pulling him down like leaden weights...

But the light. The light he was carrying in his hands...

He couldn't let the light go. He had to protect it, to carry it to where the sky was open and bright...

He was completely alone.

Harry was carrying an incredibly bright light over an endless plane of ashes... 

With a start he woke up. He had been dreaming of the white light again ... and now he realised that he had had that dream every night since he wrote the letter.

What did it mean?

TBC


	17. Rage

**_Note: The date of this chapter is taken from CoS, chapter 13. It's Tom's fifth year, but he is already sixteen. One of the things he says in this chapter is a direct quote from Harry. Can you spot it?  
This chapter was betaed by rambkowalczyk, who has an amazing fund of canon knowledge!  
Thanks for your lovely reviews, as always._**

Chapter Seventeen : Rage

_June the 13th , 1943_

Golden lights softly streaked their faces, and green shadows from the fresh leaves above touched them like the reflections of butterflies. Their feet on the grass made no sound. A breeze played with Tom's dark hair, made it dance like raven feathers. His eyes, painted by life, had a green hue among the blossoming nature. He was shining and frail at the same time, vibrant with fresh excitement and power. He was entirely human.

Tom and Alphard had been talking about the death of the Gryffindor girl, which was the reason they would all be sent home early. She had not been the first victim of the mysterious beast that roamed Hogwarts, but the first to be killed. Tom had just revealed to Alphard that he knew who the killer was.

"Because I'm the Heir of Slytherin," Tom said, his voice triumphant and impatient at the same time.

"Are you, now?" Alphard mused quietly. "It kind of makes sense. You're the perfect Slytherin. And you're having more secrets than usual this year; don't think I didn't notice that."

A lot had been up this year. Tom had invented an alias for himself and those closest to him now called him 'Lord Voldemort'. 'I am Lord Voldemort' was an anagram cleverly made out of his full name. He had also founded a secret society within Hogwarts, consisting mostly of Slytherins. They called themselves 'Knights of Walpurgis' and shared a like for the Dark Arts and a certain disappointment with the wizarding society. Alphard was, of course, a founding member of the Knights. And yet he hadn't known that Tom was the Heir of Slytherin.

"So, did you?" He asked as an afterthought.

"Did I what?" Tom asked irritably. He was blind to the breathtaking beauty of the early summer morning, seeing only his own drama. They were walking under the blossoming trees by the Great Lake.

"Kill her," Black answered evenly. "Everyone says that the Heir of Slytherin attacked the petrified Mudbloods. So did you go and find the Chamber and unleash the beast? What kind of beast is it?"

Tom nodded, shrugging. "Yes, I did. That's not the point, though. You see, it really makes no sense for me to leave school, because I'm not in danger. I am the danger."

Tom angrily kicked at the soil and grass under the willow trees where they were walking by the lake. The school would be closed and the teachers would try to catch the beast which had killed the Muggleborns, while the students would start their holidays early. And so would Tom, but unlike everyone else he wasn't happy about that at all. This was the last summer holiday he had to spend in the orphanage. Next summer he would be seventeen and no longer an underage wizard. He had hoped to stay at Hogwarts instead of having to return to the orphanage. But now that was unlikely, even though he had sent Headmaster Dippet a request to stay just the day before.

"Well, kill the beast, present it to Dippet, et voila: you stay at Hogwarts. Easy, eh?" Alphard suggested.

"No, I can't do that. There would be too many questions, such as: how did I find the basilisk, who is the Heir... and Dumbledore is already suspicious."

Tom frowned unhappily. Of all the teachers, the Transfigurations Master was the only one who didn't like him, and the dislike was mutual. Ever since his third year, when he had conjured the water demon, the man had eyed him with suspicion. The demon had been an experiment with the Dark Arts gone wrong, an accident, just like the dead girl. Dumbledore was also much more dangerous than Dippet and he would know to ask the right questions about the basilisk.

"Frame somebody else. They'll believe you. Aren't you everybody's darling, Tommy?" Alphard asked lightly in a teasing manner. "For example that moronic half-giant you've been tutoring, what's-his-name, the Gryffindor? He's crazy about all kinds of monsters, everybody knows it."

Tom grimaced. "Rubeus? Who would be so stupid to believe he was the Heir of Slytherin?"

Rubeus Hagrid, a Gryffindor third-year, was one of the worst students Hogwarts had ever seen. It wasn't as if he didn't really try hard, but those who said that giants weren't meant for school were probably right. He had barely passed his exams twice in a row, and Tom had taken the duty of tutoring him in most subjects. This wasn't only out of benevolence, of course. Giants interested Tom, they would make a formidable ally for someone who wanted to strike fear upon the wizarding world. And it also was good for his image to help the boy. Alphard was right, Rubeus was known for loving dangerous creatures. And Tom knew just the right way to frame him, a little secret he shared with Hagrid. Up until now he hadn't told anyone about the Acromantula, Rubeus was hatching in the dungeons, for it might prove to be a nice way to blackmail him some day. Now that the day was here, Tom was concerned that it would be an insult to the line of Slytherin to call Hagrid the Heir.

"Dippet would believe it," Alphard pressed.

Tom was still not convinced. Yes, Dippet was a weak-minded fool who would blame anybody presented to him just to show that he was still in control of the school. But it was a risky game. Dumbledore wouldn't be the only one to find it unlikely.

"Not yet," he said, shaking his head. "I'll talk to Dippet today; maybe I needn't do anything at all..."

+

And with that, Tom left for the castle, probably to polish his looks before he met Dippet. Alphard's eyes followed him steadily up the hill.

Tom wouldn't succeed. Dippet would not allow him to stay unless the murderer was found, Alphard was sure about that. So he had to frame the blundering halfblood, and knowing Tom, he had to make it look real. All because he was so damn desperate not to go back to that orphanage. If Alphard had been in his place, he would probably have done the same. Framing another student was no problem neither for Tom nor for Alphard. Like many Slytherins, he saw life as one big competition, where you were meant to fight with all means possible, an all or nothing game. To stay at Hogwarts, he gave up his quest to destroy all Mudbloods. If he was willing to do that just to stay in school over summer, how terrible must the place be where he had to return to?

It really was a shame, Alphard thought, that they let one of their brothers, a fellow wizard, live in such a low and miserable place. They cared for all those Mudbloods, giving them a place in Hogwarts – why couldn't they provide a home for Tom?

"Your revenge will be sweet, some day," he prophesied, while he slowly walked after the boy he would have liked to call his friend.

That evening, Tom visited Dippet. He didn't return from the office, and a few hours later, the whole school was suddenly alive and bustling with excitement. A terrible beast had escaped from the Dungeons to the Forbidden Forest, but before it did so, it almost scared a group of Ravenclaw sixth years to death. And Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant, had been arrested. It was said that he was responsible for that girl's death...

+

Barely a day later, on June the 14th, Hagrid was expelled from school. He was an underage wizard, so he couldn't be put into prison, but his wand was broken in two, which equalled a life-sentence of living as a Squib. Since the boy didn't have parents anymore, (his mother had run away years before and his father was dead) the Hogwarts gamekeeper, a man named Ogg, took him in. Dippet was glad to have his credibility restored, and normality returned to the school.

Dumbledore was standing behind Dippet when Tom entered the office once more that morning. He was to be awarded a Medal for Magical Merit and a trophy would be presented at the end of the year banquet.

The Transfigurations teacher didn't say a word to him, but after a shared look with the headmaster, he left the office. As he passed by his student, distrust was evident in his eyes.

Tom was sure that now Dippet would do just about anything for him. But he soon discovered that there was a price to awards he had received. He was never to say anything to anyone about what happened. Obviously Dippet didn't want to let it known to the wizarding world that a sixteen year old student had done what he the headmaster and faculty couldn't. Tom didn't care about that as long as he got to stay for the summer. But Dumbledore's presence earlier concerned him. What had the teacher told Dippet?

"Well, Mr Riddle, we are really sorry, you must understand, but I think it is too early yet for you to stay at Hogwarts, and so –"

"But the school is safe now!" Tom protested, trying to keep his anger and despair in check. Dippet smiled benignly at him.

"Do not be so impatient, Mr Riddle. You'll see, the summer holiday will be over quickly, and next term we can talk about staying here again." He was talking cheerfully to him, as if to a little child. Dumbledore was behind that. Whatever Dumbledore had told Dippet, it had convinced the old wizard not to let him stay over the summer.

Tom ground his teeth together, clutching the Medal until it hurt. He could plead. He could beg. He could have told them how the orphanage was. But the Heir of Slytherin would not condescend to that.

"Good night, Headmaster," he forced himself to say and turning on his heel he left them, closing the door behind him, running down the stairs, opening the next door to where the gargoyle sat, and slamming it shut. His whole body was trembling with fury.

"NO!" he yelled and threw the medal for magical merit away with such a force that it smashed a tinted glass window some twenty feet down the corridor. Shards of colourful glass fell onto the carpet.

"IT CAN'T BE!"

+

Alphard had been waiting for Tom in the corridor where the gargoyle stood. The Slytherins were prepared to celebrate their hero and Alphard was going to fetch him. It was common consent among the Slytherins that Hagrid was not the Heir of Slytherin and that the beast he raised had not come from the Chamber of Secrets. And so they were completely on the side of Tom, who had once more made sure that Slytherin won the House Cup.

But the way Tom stormed out of the office and smashed the window by throwing the medal into it, made it clear that there would be no celebration tonight. Alphard picked up the medal that lay under the thin coloured shards, wiping the golden surface clean. He looked questioningly at Tom, who was panting with fury. His face was colourless except for red stains on his cheeks.

"I'LL KILL HIM! I won't go back to that place!"

"Tom!" Alphard hissed with wide eyes. "Dippet will hear you. Why do you want to kill him, anyway? I thought the plan succeeded?"

"Not Dippet! Bloody Dumbledore!" Riddle balled a fist and hit a wall, only to bruise the skin on his knuckles.

"Dumbledore?" Alphard looked up and down the corridor. Their Transfigurations professor often appeared in the most unexpected of places.

"I HATE HIM! I'LL KILL HIM!" Tom was white as chalk, and his eyes were blazing. He didn't look as if this were an empty threat. He was dead serious about planning to kill Dumbledore.

"You cannot kill Dumbledore," the other Slytherin reasoned. "He's way too clever and powerful! And they'd be after you in a minute and what then? You'd only get yourself killed! Cold-blooded revenge will be much more –"

"He cannot defeat me! I'm the Heir of Slytherin! And what is he? A Muggle loving imbecile!"

"A powerful Muggle loving imbecile, though."

"Nobody is more powerful than me! You haven't even seen the slightest bit of what I can do!" Tom spat. But he was too fixated on his hate for Dumbledore to spare any of his anger for Alphard.

"I'm sure I haven't," Alphard conceded. "But you're only human, too. You aren't infallible, Tom. That's not something to be-"

"Then I don't want to be human!" Tom hissed, every word coming out painfully. He raised his chin up high like a defiant child, biting onto his trembling lower lip.

His frenzy had turned into a focused rage. His rage was much more dangerous now. For the first time since he knew him, Alphard saw Tom with different eyes. For the first time, he was genuinely scared. He realised that all of Tom's dreams of greatness weren't just dreams. They had the potential to become true. And that prospect was glorious and frightening at once.

He wasn't sure whether it was the excitement of the situation, or really a short glimpse of what was to come, but before his inner eye there flashed a couple of darker images, hints of a great but terrible future. Alphard's favourite subject was Divination. He liked the subtle study of dreams, the patient gaze into a hazy crystal ball. But as of yet he had never seen anything that hit him so acutely, like a punch in the stomach. The world flickered black and white before his eyes. There was a taste of copper in his mouth. It was as if he had seen his own death. He reeled, grabbing the stone wall for support, while Tom balled his fists and walked down the dim corridor, raving to himself.

"I don't want to be Tom Riddle anymore! Tom Riddle is pathetic! You all are pathetic! I shall be Lord Voldemort, through and through!"


	18. Grave

**Chapter Eighteen : Grave**

A rainstorm had lashed over the meadows during the night, refreshing their vital verdancy. Everything had the colours of life, every tree and flower spoke of summer. A soft white mist rose from the fir trees on the hills, and through that mist a bloody sun ascended the sky.

Alone in the valley, accessible by a gravel road, sat Godric's Hollow. It was bigger than a cottage, but not quite the small castle upon whose foundations it had been built. Shadowed by tall old oaks through which the sunrise filtered golden, it was welcoming and tranquil, not at all like a house that had been deserted for more than a decade.

But since it had been destroyed and rebuilt after the Halloween of 1981, only one person had lived here for a fortnight, a man in flight, tired and close to death. He hadn't been able to enter the house for it was protected by powerful charms, but he had slept under the enormous oak trees, where once, more than another decade ago, he had also found refuge.

Today, Sirius Black could not physically return for his final rest. There would be a gravestone and a burial, but he would lay his head on this ground no more. Sadly a songbird sang in the crowns of the oaks.

It was Friday, the day of Sirius' burial. A few days ago, Remus had told Harry that Sirius would be buried at Godric's Hollow and since then Harry had at once dreaded the burial and looked forward to seeing his parent's home for the first time. Harry arrived together with Professor McGonagall, Tonks and Hagrid on a hill above the valley, from where you could see the entire landscape. Everything was so calm and beautiful and so open under the sky in comparison to the narrow, dull world of Little Whinging. It pained Harry to see what he had lost when Voldemort killed his parents.

They had Port-keyed from Hogwarts. There they met most of the Weasley family: Mr and Mrs Weasley, the twins and of course Ron and Ginny. Ron and Harry gave each other a short friendly hug. Harry noticed the tense look on Ron's face. His friend seemed insecure as to how to behave towards Harry on a day like this. Then Harry said 'hi' to Ginny and the twins.

Ginny and Ron looked subdued and compassionate; even the twins wore serious, almost sombre faces.

"Oh Harry, dear," Molly sighed and embraced him tightly, running her hands through his hair. Harry noticed that he had grown again; soon he would be as tall as her.

"I'm alright, Mrs Weasley," he said awkwardly. It was not as much of a lie as it could have been. A strange change concerning his feelings about Sirius' death had taken place. He was not so much angry and despairing any more, as he was full of grief. He longed for Sirius to be here, to explore the house of his parents with him, but he knew it couldn't be. He hoped that Sirius was in a good place, wherever he was.

Then Charlie, Bill, Hermione and a woman who was a few years younger than Molly Weasley arrived with another Portkey. Hermione quickly came over to Harry, and for a tiny moment she hesitated, her eyes searching Harry's face for something, but he couldn't tell what. Then she pulled him into a quick and nervous embrace, before saying 'Hello' to them all. She was even worse than Ron and Ginny, staring at him as if he were going to have a breakdown any second. It made Harry nervous as well. He turned to the other arrivals.

"Hello Harry," Bill shook his hand. "This is Andromeda Tonks, Tonk's Mum," he said as he introduced the unfamiliar woman. She was a non-flashy, but attractive blonde, bearing no resemblance to her two sisters, and her eyes showed the same warmth and life that Sirius would have had if he had not been imprisoned in Azkaban. Harry was sure that if she would grin at him, it would be the same kind of grin that the young Sirius he only knew from photographs had worn. But at the moment she only looked very sad.

"Sirius was my cousin. I last saw you when you were a baby, Harry," she smiled in sad remembrance. Harry had grown up without any aunts who told him every Christmas how much he had grown or without any old family friends who often exclaimed 'Oh my god, last time I saw him he was, like, this tall!' and so he wasn't exasperated by her remark.

Then they walked down the hill together, talking quietly. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny walked together, carefully watched by Mr and Mrs Weasley and the elder Weasley sons. Nobody said it, but they were in potential danger, and Harry could feel the tension.

"You haven't been here before, have you?" Hermione asked tentatively. Again, she was watching him strangely. It reminded him of her behaviour right after when Sirius had died, when she had always tried to get him to talk about it. Harry shook his head.

"I thought the house had been destroyed. Remus told me that my parents are buried here, too. Where is he, anyway?" Harry asked. Ron shrugged and Ginny shook her head.

"Maybe he's already at the house. Dumbledore isn't here either. And the other Order members...".

They fell silent and Harry had time to look at the beautiful valley, the woods and the meadows, the river he could see in the distance. The water sparkled silver in the morning sun, now that the mist was gone. Birds sang louder than Harry had ever heard them. He imagined how it would be to grow up here, with a family, and have friends who visit, to be in a household like the Burrow, but it was too wonderful a picture to seem real.

Finally they entered the grounds of Godric's Hollow, and were greeted by Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Like all of them the two men were wearing black. Lupin even wore almost new looking robes, and it looked well on him. He gave Harry a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Hello," he said to them all, then he took Harry aside and asked, "Would you like me to show you around a bit?" Harry nodded. Ron and Hermione looked at each other and a silent understanding passed between them. They stayed with Ginny and the twins. Harry wasn't quite sure if he would have liked them to come with him. At least, like this, he could stay silent if he needed to.

+

Remus guided Harry to the house and opened the door with a golden key on a copper chain. "This is yours, Harry," he explained. "I got it from your vault at Gringotts."

They entered a long entrance room with a staircase and a huge oval mirror at the end of it, picture frames on the walls and nice Persian rugs on the floor.

Harry felt strange. It was a very two-sided feeling. There was something about this place, a certain light and smell, which seemed to welcome him, embrace him, like nothing had before. He could have fallen asleep with a smile right where he was.

Yet then there was something else, something intangible up the stairs, which sent shivers down his spine. But Lupin guided him away from the stairs into the kitchen, a room with big windows and white furniture, in a country house style. The cupboards were empty and unused and dust motes were gathering on the wooden floor.

"They repaired or replaced all the furniture," Remus said quietly. "It looks just like when James and Lily used to live here. We used to eat together here, before they went into hiding. Sirius and I were dreadful cooks, Lily used to say that the only pot she would let me near was a tea-pot ...".

"Did my grand-parents live here, too?" Harry asked when he spotted a picture frame in which a boy who could have been him before first year played with a grey rabbit while his parents laughed at him. It was his father with Harry's grandparents. James' parents looked like nice, optimistic people, a little old perhaps for such a young boy. When they noticed him watching them they fell silent and then waved tentatively. His grandmother had a round-cheeked smile that made Harry's heart ache with homesickness, a feeling he hadn't known that badly before. Lupin sadly shook his head.

"Not then. They died in our seventh year, murdered by Death Eaters. They were purebloods, you know, but didn't want to join or support the Death Eaters. They were brave enough to defy them in the public – but they were killed. That was when your father began to change – when he grew up and became determined to defeat Voldemort."

"Oh." Harry walked through another door and entered a living room with a big fireplace and very old seats. More pictures. His father, growing up: on a small child's broom, another one in his first Hogwarts uniform, the Potters in the Alps, skiing the Muggle way. And then there were photos from Hogwarts, James, Sirius, Remus and Peter, looking incredibly young. A stag, a dog and a rat, photographed by whom? Remus?

Finally, above the fireplace, a picture of James, Lily and himself as a baby started waving at him, smiling. He had to force himself to breathe. He felt like in first year again, when he had watched the Mirror of Erised for hours on end.

But this time the image of his parents didn't suffice. It opened a raw bleeding wound in his heart and choked him. In those moments of complete vulnerability and confusion he suddenly felt it again: the irregular chilling pulse of magic from upstairs. Something was waiting for him there.

"What's upstairs?" he forced himself to ask, trying not to sound as troubled as he felt. Lupin looked carefully at him.

"There's a drawing room, your parents bedroom – and your room. Do you want to see it?"

Harry silently nodded and together they mounted the stairs. They were broad and creaky and made out of dark wood, chafed by many shoes. Harry felt like he had walked them before, but that was ridiculous, he had last been here as a baby. And yet, he couldn't shake off the feeling of deja vu. He walked up them almost hastily, not caring about his surroundings anymore.

Now the pulse grew stronger, until it completely engulfed him. He felt disoriented and at the same time his senses seemed strangely enhanced, taking in minute details, like the smell of candy, of pumpkin juice, like the flickering candlelight ... candlelight? There was no candlelight.

Harry noticed that he had stopped in front of an open door. Within the square room, he could see a cot, and a couple of toys carefully placed on shelves and a cupboard.

"Harry?" Remus asked worriedly. "Are you alright?"

Harry took a step into the room, almost against his own will, and felt like he was being hit by waves and waves of the green pulse that centred in here ...

"Don't you feel it?" he whispered.

"Feel what? Harry?" But Harry didn't answer Remus, he stooped in front of the bed, touched the ground.

"This is where I died...," a voice said, and it took Harry some seconds to realise that it was his own. Lupin looked alarmed, and seized him by his shoulders.

"Harry! You didn't die! What are you talking about?"

Harry blinked. Remus was right. He was alive. The green pulse was gone; the room was now flooded by daylight, tranquil and sweet. A baby's bedroom with pale lilac wallpaper.

"I – I don't know." He touched his forehead. "I think ... I think this is were my mother died, where Voldemort ...". But the words sounded strange, as if someone had told him of it, whereas before, he had known it.

Remus nodded and wanted to say something more, but Harry quickly got up. He didn't want to talk about this, not today, not to Lupin. He looked around, and took a random plush animal out of the toys. A small, black, button-eyed dog.

"Let's go downstairs," he suggested.

+

At the highest point of the Godric's Hollow grounds, next to the forest and under the oldest oak tree, stood the few old gravestones of the Potter family. Withered and mighty, the grey stone was engraved with the names of Sarah Potter and Henry Potter, and a bucket of fresh white lilies adorned the newer marble one of James and Lily Potter.

And now a new headstone joined the other two: black granite and fresh wet earth, as if someone had really recently been buried there.

Sirius Black  
1960 – 1996

They were assembled around the grave, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione, Remus Lupin, Tonks, and her mother, Kingsley and Moody, Hagrid, McGonagall and finally Albus Dumbledore. Their faces wore expressions ranging from unadulterated grief to grim exhaustion. Sirius was the first of their friends to fall victim to this second war. All the adults wondered how many more burials would follow as they all knew that this was just the beginning.

First Dumbledore did the Wizard Burial Ceremony. It was a brief couple of words in a language Harry didn't recognise, but Hermione who had Ancient Runes as a subject later told him it had been Celtic, followed by words in Latin. Then the old wizard raised a small lantern, took the candle out of it and with a movement of his hand the flame died.

"May the souls of the dead avert their eyes from the land of the living. The sins of the living shall fall away from the dead. May this soul find his way. May he not be bound to the mortal realm, may he be able to find passage in peace."

He bent down and put the no longer burning candle on the grave. Instantly the white wax melted into the earth and disappeared. For a long time the crowd was completely silent. Harry, still troubled by the incident inside the house, felt strange and unreal, burying a person with no mortal remains.

"Sirius", he thought to himself, preferring to feel pain, rather than this light-headedness that he was currently feeling. I'm burying Sirius. But it felt as if Sirius had been a dream, intangible and paling now.

Then suddenly he felt the soft pressure of someone touching his shoulder, taking him back to reality. Without turning around he knew it was Lupin. And this gentle touch reminded him of the existence, the life of these people: his parents and Sirius. There was someone who had known them better than he, who had shared their life. Harry sighed.

Slowly, those who had brought flowers laid down the bouquets. White was the colour, stark against the black of the tombstone, the wet soil of the earth. A soft breeze let raindrops fall from the oak-tree, pearling slowly over the granite like tears. The wizards and witches were completely silent, but nature was not. A single bird sang in the trees, the song magnified by the silence, and Harry knew the song: the soothing sound of compassion, of melancholy, of love and of hope. He looked up from the grave to spot the bright red feathers in the trees, but then somebody began to speak.

Remus had silently left his position behind Harry and stepped behind the gravestone. His voice was soft and gentle as always, but his eyes shone raw with emotion.

"I seriously didn't think I would be standing here today, the last of us... If you had asked me, I'd have said Sirius would have been the survivor, the one to address you now." He looked down at the grave, lost, as if he had to tear the words out of his flesh.

"Sirius was a bright star indeed. Many of us once knew him as a good friend, a charming companion, and a brave man. We underestimated his loyalty. How easily we've been led to believe what was wrong! How easily we've distrusted him ..." It was strange that someone should say such dark things on the grave of his friend, where he should have done nothing but praise the man. But Harry, and everyone else, appreciated what Lupin said, because it was honest and true.

"Sirius never got what he deserved. He was more loyal than all of us. Both his loyalty and willpower kept him sane and alive through years and years of the utter darkness, in places where no one else had managed this. He grew up in the cradle of darkness, and yet he chose the path of light. He was betrayed and misjudged, tortured and left alone – and yet he didn't leave the path he had chosen." Lupin paused, looking at the earth and the flowers and grave as if looking for guidance.

"I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore, not without my friends. But how can I give up?" He raised his eyes to them, but he wasn't directly looking at them. "How can anyone of us give up – in the face of this our friend's fate?"

Then he smiled. "Sirius would have laughed at me for saying this. He never thought of himself as a role model, or a shining example. In fact, he spent most of his life trying to set a bad example. I want to remember the boy he's been. But I think we should also not forget the man he has been, for we could all use a bit of him, of his faith, his loyalty, his willpower – his ability to endure the deepest darkness and still retain the ability to love."

Slowly he averted his eyes from the distant blue sky he'd been looking at during the last part of his speech, and faced the moved looks around him. A sad smile played at his lips.

+

Slowly the crowd dissolved. In little groups they left; there was not much talk, and people were downcast despite the hopeful speech given at the grave. Harry lingered for a while. But then the presence of his friends reminded him that he could not stay here forever. He turned around and they were there for him, taking him back to the house. Remus felt touched by that wordless scene of friendship, and longed to have such company again.

Dumbledore gave Remus a concerned look and Remus understood that the old headmaster wanted to know whether he was alright. He gave him a nod, and Dumbledore nodded back at him, then he left, too, with McGonagall. Now everyone was gone except him.

Remus was alone. The people who were now returning home or to Hogwarts were gone. Lily and James were gone, and Sirius was gone and Peter, of whom he didn't want to think about but had to, was also gone. Gone was the past and it felt as if they each took a small part of him with them and there was no one left to comfort him.

Remus still stood behind the gravestone, softly touching the cool black surface and couldn't let go. It hurt all the more, for he had lost Sirius and then he had regained him and now he had lost him again. It was cruel. Sirius, the young Sirius, before Azkaban, would have laughed at him for being like this. He would also have hated that speech Remus had just given. But Remus had done his best.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered to the stone. "James would have done way better than me. But that's what you get for letting me be the last one..."


	19. Transfigurations

_Warning: This chapter depicts three murders, but nothing worse than what is already in the books by JKR. _

**Chapter Nineteen : Transfigurations **

_London  
Summer of 1944_

It was the fifth summer of war in London. In the summer of 1940, the Muggles had proved for once and all that they were just as powerful as wizards when it came to violence and destruction. In the beginning, the Germans dropped their bombs on the centres of Muggle industry and on strategic buildings, but soon they started to attack civilian areas as well. For a whole year, bombs dropped on London every night, and whole blocks of houses were reduced to smoking piles of rubble and brick dust by storms of fire. People were killed; people were made homeless and almost everyone seemed to be traumatised in some way.

Tom had been lucky, having spent the time from September 1940 until May 1941, when the bombings were the worst, at Hogwarts, far away from the horrors of these nights. But every summer he returned to the orphanage and was confronted with the war. The number of orphans had increased and so had the poverty. Every room was crammed full of people sleeping on makeshift beds, the food was scarce and the work hard. The Muggle men had gone to war, and left their women and children to deal with the destruction at home.

Tom learned what mortal fear was like when they had to run through the night, with the streets ablaze with fire to reach a bomb shelter. But on the mornings after, when he saw the smoking ruins of Muggle houses, he decided that one day he wanted to be the cause of such destruction rather than being on the receiving end.

In the summer of 1944, he returned to Stockwell to fetch a few papers vowing never to return again. At seventeen, he was finally of age in the wizarding world. The short walk out of the building into the street was the happiest moment he could remember. The ground under his feet became soft as clouds; his every step was the step of a king. Free, free, free, his mind sang.

And what a freedom it was. He was poor as a church mouse. He had saved very little money in the last few years because there was never enough left to save. The few galleons that he possessed had come from selling the more or less worthy things he had found in the Chamber of Secrets: parchments with ancient texts, age-old receipts of long-forgotten potions, and a few minor jewels. It was hard to sell these things without raising suspicion, especially for a seventeen-year-old boy. He would have bullied his schoolmates into giving him money, had he not been too proud to admit that he had none.

The next problem was to find a flat. More than a million houses in Muggle London had been destroyed and it seemed as if every flat was either bursting with tenants or was unaffordable. The same went for the flats in wizarding London: every wizard who could afford it had fled to those areas, like Diagon Alley, that were protected by powerful spells. But now, all the flats there were occupied. The choice was to either take a very desolate flat in Muggle London or to sleep out on the street. Leaving London was not an option for him. In a smaller and less troubled city Muggles would have started to ask questions. Even in London girls questioned him and called him a coward for not fighting in the war, as they did with all young men who stayed at home. London, with its masses of inhabitants and all the problems of war provided just the kind of anonymity Tom wanted and needed.

But after two days of searching for a flat, Tom was at the verge of giving up. He hadn't slept at all, and was tired to the bones, dusty, dirty and sweaty. He only wanted to find some kind of shelter, no matter how run-down it might be. His odyssey had led him to the Docks, the part of London which was almost completely devastated. Piles upon piles of bricks, shards of shattered windows, splintered wooden beams, everything just lay there among the skeletons of houses. Like the ruins of a desert city it spread in the afternoon sun. Only a few of the industrial buildings were still standing and none seemed to have been in use.

Why not just take one of these, make it Unplottable and rebuild it by magic? It would take the Muggles years to rebuild these parts of their ruined city. Here he could live in relative peace all summer long and it would not cost him a sickle. Tom decided that this was best.

It didn't take long to find a place that had once been the office of some kind of company, standing next to a bombed warehouse. All the huge windows were broken and the walls charred by past fires, but it would suffice.

Making it completely Unplottable would take a few days, but a simple Muggle repelling charm would do for starters. All this was magic he had taught himself at Hogwarts in preparation for this summer, and now it came in handy. Once he stood inside his new 'house' and knew that it was his and his alone, all the exhaustion of two days spent wandering the city fell off him. For the first time in his life he would have a room of his own, he would buy his own food, would clean up when he wanted to and would go to sleep when he chose to. All these were trivial things, but they made him feel giddy and all-powerful.

He started by cleaning the rooms of shards and dust on the first floor and then he transfigured bricks into carpets and splintered desks into a new table and a bed. This was work for house-elves and Tom had sworn to himself never to do such low work again after he left the orphanage, but in that moment he didn't care much. It was nice to have such power over his environment, to arrange the rooms in a way he liked.

When the frame of the bed was ready, the only things that remained in the barren rooms to make sheets and a mattress from were dust and ashes and a few scraps of paper. It took Tom two attempts to get it right, but the fabric remained grey and felt strange under his touch. Even though he had made cloth out of dirt, the cloth was in essence still what it had been made from.

He conjured a simple meal, and sitting on his first own bed in his first own room, he ate in the middle of the night and maybe for the first time in his life he felt nothing but contentment. Looking at this room he thought: this house has been built by Muggles. I should be appalled by it. But I'm not. It doesn't matter who built it. It's a house and it is mine.

Wondering about that he fell asleep and slept dreamlessly all through the night and until the next evening. He woke to the sounds of the nearby port and stared at the ceiling for some seconds. He was alone, completely alone, and realised that he had never been alone for so long. There had always been other children around him and nurses and teachers, always too little space and too little privacy. Finally, the oppressing closeness of people was taken away from him.

The next day he spent looking for more furniture and buying real food and stuff like candles and potions ingredients. He also spent some money on a small dark eagle-owl in Diagon Alley. He had never possessed one of his own, as it was impossible to have one at the orphanage. Now, he would be able to keep up the correspondence with the secret society of the Knights of Walpurgis during the summer. The owl perched on the table, blinking imperiously at the room with its still empty shelves and odd furniture, and its new owner in his dusty school robes. It was warm in the night in June, and from the distance the sounds of the Docks and the buzzing of crickets could be heard.

Once more Tom thought that it was strange that he didn't hate this Muggle-built home and the sounds of Muggle ships in the distance. For a long time he had thought that he hated all things Muggle but that was not true. About some he didn't care and some could even be good, like this place.

Finally, Tom found time to look at the small folder of documents that he had fetched at the orphanage. It wasn't much. The most interesting was probably a couple of documents from Bethlehem Hospital, the institution where his mother had spent the last few months of her life and where Tom had lived for the first three years of his life. He didn't remember that time, and that was probably a good thing. Growing up in a hospital for the insane was not the kind of thing he wanted to remember.

He finally learned his mother's name. For a moment he started at it, black on white on the paper. Wendy. A plain, simple name. A name for a little girl, sweet and meaningless. He could not imagine what she had been like.

But then everything changed. The slow, comfortable pace of his life halted and quickened at once, and the warmth of the summer turned into a grey chill. It all started with a little document that told him where his father lived. There, among the thin, worn-out documents, he had found his father's address.

It was as if he were a person who had lived with a fatal illness for a long time. Until now he hadn't known who had infected him with that illness, but suddenly he learned that person's name and address and he knew that this person was not only alive, but healthy and rich and probably happy. He would never get rid of his illness and felt that the person who had infected him did not deserve such happiness. It was too late, he could not get rid of this illness anymore, but he still wanted to erase this person.

Later in his life he would always remember this night as a succession of very clear images and periods of madness. Like a caterpillar that turns into a butterfly, he had to destroy the caterpillar first, had to go through a painful stage of chrysalis before he could attain such colourful wings.

The night was noisy and lively in the countryside, full of little summer sounds of unknown significance: the song of a nightingale, coming sad and sickly sweet from the yews, the crickets and the breeze in the wheat fields, and the faint and distant rumble of noises from the village.

Tom had been standing frozen in front of the gloomy manor for a long while. A whole life passed in front of his eyes, the life of a boy who had never existed. He would have played under those neatly cut rose bushes. He would have sat behind those windows, eating with silver spoons. He would have worn a small black suit every Sunday parading it in the church on the foot of the hill. And he wanted to rip this unreal figment of imagination apart, simply for the reason that it might have existed. He could not deny that he wanted to have lived that life and was appalled by his own desires.

Finally, he strode up the gravel road to the entrance. He didn't quite know what he wanted here. He had acted on impulse; he had Apparated to the village without a plan. What did he want from his father's family? He hated them already, without even knowing them. But still he was driven by something. Maybe it was just curiosity, some morbid desire to know why his mother had to die. How did she end up in a hospital for the insane?

He considered the heavy door for a second and then he simply knocked. He heard the sound of voices, a chair moving and then steps.

"Who's there?" an irritated voice asked without opening the door. It was very impolite, but Tom didn't care. He simply answered.

"Tom Riddle."

The door ripped open with a sudden force and a man stared angrily down at him.

"Get away from here you bloody brats! Do you think I'm stupid? I am Tom Riddle!"

Only then he realized that Tom was not only alone, but also not a boy from the village. Tom was wearing a wizarding cloak, despite the warm night. The man was taller than Tom and a bit heavier built, but their features and hair were similar to each other. Tom realized that he was probably talking to his father. He stared numbly at the man in the door.

"I'm your son," he said in a dead voice.

The Muggle recoiled, stepping back into the hall. Light illuminated his face and Tom could see that there were purplish shadows under his grey eyes, and his features were sallow and sagging.

"I have no son," the man stammered after a second. But Tom ignored him, closing the distance between them until he was also standing in the light of the hall. His father's eyes widened with recognition.

"Good Lord," he whispered. "You're Wendy's child."

Tom assessed their surroundings. They were standing in the hall of a noble mansion, decorated richly but not very nicely. There were electric lights, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. From a door to his father's right, he heard voices. Tom Sr. was still staring speechlessly at him.

"Who's in there?" Tom asked.

"Nobody. People. Why – why don't we go upstairs for a moment? I – I'll give you money. You want money, right?"

"I don't care for your money. Are these your parents?" Tom stared at his father for a second. Sometimes he could read minds, and almost always he knew if someone was lying. The man shook his head and Tom knew it was a lie. Everything was a lie.

"Introduce me to them," he demanded. Tom Sr. frowned, straightening himself.

"No, I won't. You're very bold for a boy of your age. I'll give you some money and that's it."

"I don't think so. Imperio!"

His father froze for a second, his features became soft, and he gave a docile nod. Tom had used this curse several times before and found it easier with each time to force his will upon someone.

"Introduce me."

"I'll introduce you to my parents..."

Tom Sr. trod into the drawing room and Tom trailed after him. The drawing room was lit by candles in several silver candlesticks and by a fire in a marble grate. There were bookshelves, Persian rugs, old, claw-footed sofas and an armchair. In the armchair, an old man was sitting and smoking a pipe. The man had haughty, heavily lined features and was bent by age. He was still wearing his dinner things. Next to him sat an old lady. Her hair was white and her face pale from age. She had watery blue eyes and she looked sick and a little confused.

Tom Sr. stopped in the middle of the room. "Mother, Father, this is my son," he said in a slack voice. Then he fell quiet, numbed by the Imperius Curse.

The old lady blinked at them and the pipe-smoking man started to cough. "What – what is this?" he rasped. "Your son? You have no son!"

He looked furious and his wife was even more confused than before. Tom found them very disappointing. There was nothing interesting, nor appealing about them. They were just rich, snobby Muggles.

"This is Wendy's son," Tom Sr. repeated. This time his voice sounded strained, as if he was fighting against the curse.

"Wendy?" the old lady asked with wonder in her voice. She seemed to be senile.

"That whore from the village? The woman you got with child? That – that little bastard is her offspring? I thought they'd get rid of that thing in that institution!" Tom's grandfather barked.

Tom felt his fingers around his wand twitch involuntarily. Two forces were fighting inside him: the urge to hurt and the urge to run away and close his ears.

"My mother was a witch, you filthy scum," he muttered to himself.

"A witch!" Tom Sr. exclaimed nervously. Tom was no longer using the Imperius Curse. "Your mother was no witch, boy. She was only a confused girl. A loony. Told everyone she was a witch, but when she was asked to do magic, she told me her wand had been snapped by her family because she had married me! Ha! She clearly was insane, any family would have been glad to have her married to me, I'm a Riddle and she was just a village girl, you see –" the man ranted on, but Tom wasn't listening anymore.

He had wanted to kill before. Or at least he had thought so. He had wanted to kill the bullies in the orphanage and Dumbledore when he interfered with his plans. But that feeling had been nothing compared with what he felt now. He was going mad and blind with hatred. And he wasn't even sure who he hated: his father or his grandfather or his mother or himself...

"Avada Kedavra!" he yelled suddenly. A flash of green and his father dropped to the floor like a heavy doll. And something inside Tom seemed to drop away with his father's fall.

The old man made an indignant, shocked noise and the old woman gasped. Tom whirled around. Now everything happened with great ease.

"Avada Kedavra!" he shouted once more and this time he relished the powerful surge of magic. His grandfather slumped in the armchair, dead. The pipe dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. The sound was followed by a sudden silence.

Tom and the old lady stared at each other; one frozen by his own power, one by sheer fright. The seconds ticked by. Tom cooled down a little bit. But she was still staring at him. She knew his name, and had seen him kill the two men. He pointed his wand at her. She blinked. Maybe she didn't understand what had happened to her husband and son.

He could have Obliviated her, but he didn't.

"Avada Kedavra."

After that, the silence returned. Tom was seeing the scene, but he was not Tom. He was uninvolved, a bystander, a watcher, his own shadow. He saw himself, wand still raised, and three dead bodies, killed by fear itself. Time had stopped.

Somehow Tom left the house, as if walking in a dreamscape. He was going through the motions like a machine. He felt completely empty.

His father had been a pathetic creature, but he didn't care. His mother had fallen in love with such a man, but he didn't care. She had been just as pathetic as him, and Tom should have been angry at her. All his life he had seen her as the victim, just like he had seen himself as the victim. But that was over now. He would forget her.

She was part of Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle had been left behind in that house or somewhere in the crowded corridors of the orphanage.

He wasn't Tom Riddle anymore, he could feel it. This body was only a vessel for that power which he would someday become. He felt detached from Tom; as if Tom were a person he had once known very well but was now rapidly forgetting.

He walked miles like this, in the darkness of the night, carried by these powerful thoughts.

The next morning he woke in his London flat, spread-eagled on his bed. He felt cold and sticky, and the sheets were tangled around him like a firm cocoon. The sun was shining in through the broken windows and for some time he thought it had all been a dream. It felt all so remote now. But when he sat up, he could see the documents lying everywhere on the floor of the huge, half-empty room, and his boots which were still dirty from walking through the fields.

Knowing that it had not been a dream, Tom examined his feelings once more. The Riddles were dead now, and so was his mother. Like the molten snow of past winters, they had had left no traces in the landscape of his mind. The sense of freedom returned, even stronger than before, freedom as sharp as a razorblade cutting the ties to his past.

This was the path he wanted to take, he decided while sitting half-naked on his bed, in the middle of this destroyed city; reborn in his own smouldering pile of ashes. From now on he would systematically erase everything that was a part of his past.

He knew the answer to his question now. The Muggle houses and Muggle ships didn't make him angry because they didn't concern him. They didn't remind him of what he had been, and that was why he didn't hate them. But every Half-blood and Mudblood and Muggle on the face of this earth was like a mirror of his past. He would shatter them.

From now on, everything he did would serve this one purpose. He would no longer be content with childish games. He would erase the traces of his heritage, he would change his name and identity, and he would become powerful where he had been weak, free where he had been confined, immortal where he had been mortal and imperfect.  
And even then he would not rest. When he had changed himself, he would go on changing this world, making it a perfect place to live in for the perfect man he would become.


	20. Secrets

_Chapter Twenty! This will have many more chapters. (It's complete at 32 chapters, and that's why I'm currently posting so many chapters at once. I've never written anything that long before, it's novel-length !)  
Also, I'd like to disclaim the idea of the watery, TV-like basin. That's from the marvelous novel 'Jonathan Strange&Mr Norell' by S. Clarke :)  
Many thanks to my faithful beta-reader rambkowalczyk and the reviewers!_

**Chapter Twenty : Secrets**

After the burial, Ron and Hermione went back to Hogwarts together with Harry. It was only for the night, but both had in mind to ask their parents if they could stay longer, possibly for most of the holidays. Harry could not leave Hogwarts; it was now the only safe place for him. The Weasleys would have loved to let him stay at the Burrow, but Dumbledore convinced them that Hogwarts would be safer.

Harry didn't mind staying at Hogwarts. It felt more like home than living with the Dursleys. Here he could prepare himself to fight, especially with Ron and Hermione around.

They were mounting the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, when Ron asked Harry in a hushed voice, "What's up with Hermione?"

Harry shrugged. He had noticed Hermione's strange behaviour before and now he thought about it once more. She had been unusually quiet and awkward around them. And she fidgeted all the time someone talked to her.

"Maybe it's a girl thing," Ron mused a little louder. In the empty castle each word was magnified by the silence. Harry was just about to reply that Hermione was probably just upset by the burial, when she whirled around, glaring at her friends.

"You'd think I have a right to be sad right now," she hissed. Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Harry was faster.

"Don't argue, please. We're all a bit... er... you know." She flushed. So did Ron.

"I'm sorry," they mumbled simultaneously.

"You're right," Ron went on, in an attempt at distraction. "And we still don't know why Voldemort attacked you, or rather how, because, well, why isn't really the question. But weren't you safe with those Muggles? I mean, wasn't that the only reason you had to stay there each year?" he babbled on, turning to Hermione for answers. Hermione winced.

"Um, Ron ... maybe you'd better ask Harry about that?"

Ron cast her a strange, insecure sideways glance. There was some kind of suspicion, some kind of hurt in the way he raised his brows and opened his mouth slightly. He had just realised that Hermione knew something Harry hadn't told him. Too late Harry realised that now he was driven into a corner. Hermione spotted the rescuing portrait hole.

"I'm going to change," she lied, trying to get away from Ron and Harry. Quickly she bolted up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. Now Harry was left to explain to Ron about the Prophecy.

+

Ron looked at Harry. Harry nodded ever so slightly.

"I haven't told you yet, because – because I couldn't when we were still in school, I just ... I was kinda shocked myself, okay?" he tried to justify himself.

Ron shrugged.

"Hermione knows," he said, as if that was all that counted.

" That was... er... a mistake I shouldn't have let happened. Let me explain to you, please..?" Harry pleaded. Ron sat down on a couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His change of mood was almost as swift as one of Harry's.

"You probably thought I wouldn't take it so well . Because I'm so immature. Isn't that what Hermione always says?" he asked sarcastically.

"Um, yeah... no. It wasn't like that." Harry licked his lips nervously. He could see where this was going. Ron would be angry at him, just like he had been when Harry was chosen as a champion in the Triwizard Tournament.

"What's it all about, anyway?" Ron asked with a slight frown.

"It's about the prophecy that was smashed in the Department of Mysteries. There was a reason why my name was on it. After Dumbledore and Voldemort duelled and I was nearly killed, Dumbledore brought me to his office. I was still – I asked him what it had all been about, why the prophecy was... why Sirius had to die." Harry let go of a breath he had been holding.

"And Dumbledore revealed that he knew the contents of the Prophecy, because he had been the one to whom it had been made. And guess who made the Prophecy?" Harry asked and his lips quirked slightly upwards. Maybe he could try to make Ron laugh.

His friend shrugged disinterestedly.

"Trelawney."

"That old fraud?" Ron couldn't suppress a small grin. Harry felt encouraged to go on.

"And then Dumbledore told me the text of the Prophecy."

"You knew it all the time!" Ron gasped. "So what was it all about? What was so terrible that you couldn't tell your best friends?" Harry lowered his head. In a flat voice, he recited the words, as he knew them by heart.

"It said : The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. It was made before my birth. But it could also apply to Neville."

"Neville?" Ron said in disbelief. "Neville Longbottom?"

"Yeah. Well, that was all Voldemort knew of the Prophecy, and that's why he set out to kill one or probably both of us. But there's more, and he didn't hear this part : And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not."

"You've got super-powers?" Ron gasped. Harry couldn't laugh at that.

"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives." He caught his breath. That was the hardest part, the terrible truth. Dead silence fell over the room. Ron was staring at him with his bright eyes; a strange grimace of disbelief appeared on his freckled face. Finally it burst out of him.

"What the hell? I mean – who needs a stupid prophecy like that? I mean – even I don't have to read my tea leaves to find out that you are You-Know-Who's arch-enemy!" Ron laughed loudly at him. Harry contemplated telling him that sixteen years ago, this had indeed been a shock.

"What is there to be so shocked about?" Ron asked while still shaking his head. "You're the Boy-who-lived! You defeated him first year. You defeated him second year. You defeated him fourth year. You didn't get killed this year. That Voldemort is thick enough to need a prophecy to get it, okay – but you, Harry?" Ron sniggered.

"You're not ... shocked?" Harry croaked. "Not a little bit?" Was Ron completely off his rockers? How could he laugh in the face of such a fate!

"Sorry mate, it's just ... it's kinda obvious. That you're the one who's going to fight Voldemort might have been a big shock sixteen years ago... but today it's just old news."

Harry couldn't suppress a smile, and he didn't want to. They were both sitting in Gryffindor common room, in the middle of the holidays. He had just buried his godfather, and now he was either going to kill the biggest dark sorcerer alive or be killed by him; he didn't have the slightest clue how – and he just realised how silly he had been. Ron was right. He had pretended to be shocked by the Prophecy, but in fact he should have known it all along.

He broke down and laughed, and Ron laughed with him.

"And you know what the silliest part is?" Harry choked. Ron shook his head.

"I'm going to defeat him with the power of love!"

"Man, that's just so... so not cool!" They burst into another fit of giggling. All of Harry's stress was falling away from him, all the tension that had been building up inside him. He put a hand onto Ron's shoulder and tried to be serious for a moment.

"Ron, you're... you're a really good friend, did you know that?" Harry asked. Ron looked strangely at him for a second, then he gave him a smug smile.

"Yeah, I know."

+

Hermione, who had changed into a white summer dress, stood at the top of the stairs looking down at her two best friends unnoticed. They were laughing hard, completely hysterical. The sound had lured her out of the girl's dormitory. It made her feel strangely content to watch the two, not at all as if she were an outsider. There was something about them that told her that they would make it. Harry wasn't going to be alone in his fight.

"Just imagine it could have been Neville," gasped Ron.

"We still have to tell him," red-faced Harry reminded him.

"He'll be delighted," Ron snorted.

She smiled. The warmth of her own smile pushed her worries aside, and she wondered why she couldn't just go down those stairs and laugh with them. They were happy. They deserved to be. She had no right and no reason to destroy this. No, she couldn't tell Harry her secret.

He had coped with Sirius death. He would grieve properly; he wouldn't forget him, but he would learn to live with it. Life hadn't been kind to Sirius Black. Now it looked like Harry might be able to cope by thinking that Sirius welcomed death. That would make it easier.

Death, Hermione thought sadly. Death, but not ... this. She feared to speak its name, even in her thoughts, but she couldn't deny it. What Yorick Bane had described in his journal was hell.

She couldn't look straight into Harry's face as long as she kept that secret from him. She wouldn't be able to laugh with them as long as they didn't know. For if she told them, would Harry ever laugh like that again?

+

When the three came down to the Great Hall to eat breakfast the next morning, they were surprised to see the Weasley parents, Lupin, Tonks, McGonagall and almost all of their teachers. Dumbledore wasn't there, and two other order members, Bill and Mrs Figg, were just leaving. There was a nervous kind of excitement in the air as if something important had happened.

Several copies of the Daily Prophet were spread on the table, a huge parchment map of the British Isles and the North Sea on which glowing dots were moving, and out of another room behind the teacher's table, they could hear more voices. A number of quills floated above parchments, writing on their own accord, much like the Quick-Quotes Quill Rita Skeeter was using. Every now and then, a wizard would come to look at the writing and frown or cluck their tongue. It seemed to be bad news, whatever it was. The three interchanged a surprised look and then Molly Weasley spotted them.

"Oh Dear," she exclaimed. "You haven't heard yet, have you?"

"What, Mom?" Ron asked. Mr Weasley turned around. His face was flushed almost as red as his hair.

"Death Eaters have attacked Azkaban during the night. The ministry forces have retreated this morning. We've lost nine Aurors in fight and the fate of the prisoners who weren't Death Eaters is unclear. But we have to expect the worst. The Dementors have changed sides."

Harry bit his lip. So Voldemort was demonstrating his power, and the Ministry had no way to stop him. How long would it be until Voldemort was standing at the doors of Hogwarts?

"Are the Death Eaters still in Azkaban?" Hermione asked. Mr Weasley nodded.

"Dumbledore thinks they're going to use the fortress as their new base. It's almost as impenetrable as Hogwarts."

"The Order has been making contingency plans for the safety of members whose families might be in danger," Mr Weasley added.

"We're thinking about having you stay at Hogwarts, for the rest of the holiday," Molly said a little more directly. "You and Ginny. Fred and George refuse to leave their business, though," she added wistfully. Ginny had stayed at the Burrow last night because Fred and George had been visiting. Obviously the twins would stick to their joke shop.

Ron beamed at the prospect of staying at Hogwarts with Harry. "Great, Mum! When will we fetch our things?"

Molly looked dismayed. She had probably expected at least a little resistance. Hermione looked lost in her thoughts, when Professor McGonagall addressed her.

"Miss Granger, we have also decided to offer a special program for all Muggle relatives of endangered wizards and witches, and you're one of them, considering your close friendship with Mr Potter."

Harry felt guilty. He was endangering all the people he loved and he couldn't do anything for them. It was a curse put upon him before his birth.

"What kind of program, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"Well, as they can't do magic, we can only offer passive protection. Warding their house or making it Unplottable and a lot of charms which have been on Mr Potter's relatives so far. They would still be very vulnerable once they leave their house, though. They might want to take an extended leave from their work and stay at home for most of the time... but we don't know how long this war will last. The strongest protection of course is the Fidelius charm. It's –"

"Involving a secret-keeper," Hermione breathed.

If they were offering her that, her parents really were in danger, Harry thought darkly. Hermione looked very pale. Professor McGonagall nodded quietly.

"Would your parents consider that?"

"I don't know ... I didn't really tell them much about ... anything."

+

Tonks and Remus Lupin took Hermione with them back to her parents to offer them the Secret-Keeper solution. A house-elf came and brought the boys breakfast which they ate in silence.

Nobody told Ron and Harry to leave, and so they sat down at one end of the table and watched everything in quiet anxiety. They had wanted to see the Order meetings so badly, but now they realised how serious everything was.

People were Flooing in and out all the time and brought news with them every few minutes. As each person gave their report a magic Quill recorded their observation. Other quills, the one they had noticed earlier, were writing down messages from people at the ministry or other locations. They reminded Harry of Muggle fax machines.

The number of victims increased until it almost reached twenty. Both Harry and Ron listened intently when an attack on Durmstrang, one of the other European wizard schools, was reported. One of their towers had been destroyed and a number of students had to be rescued out of it. Again, there were more injured and dead people. A reporter claimed that the attack had been staged by other students, who had then fled the school to join Voldemort's forces. No names were mentioned. Harry and Ron wondered if they might hear Victor Krum's name, but then they remembered that Krum had already been in his final year during the Triwizard Tournament.

By eleven 'o clock, they got the first images. Wizards didn't have TV, but live images could be received by other means. A huge circular silver basin with water served as a screen. It stood on a separate table and whenever an image came in, the watery surface rippled shortly and then became smooth as a mirror, showing live images and reports in perfect quality, as real and three-dimensional as if they were looking through a window.

And what images they were. Taken from a broom hovering near Azkaban, they were shaky and irregular. The sun was just as bright over the waves of the North Sea as everywhere else, but the light did not properly reach the high-walled fortress on the steep rocks that was Azkaban. It was the first time Harry saw the prison. The place seemed to be shrouded in an air of despair, even on such a bright day. And now, there was the Dark Mark, looming in dark green over the fortress.

The image switched to another site. A young Irish witch was speaking, while in the background Medi-Wizards could be seen hovering people out of an uncanny looking building.

" – during the Azkaban raid. Last night, the Irish Wizengamot and their department of Magical law have been cursed with the infamous Pestilencia Curse. As you can see, everyone is still very busy here. So far there have been no deaths, but some members are still in critical condition. The Pestilencia curse causes all inhabitants of a building to be infected with dangerous illnesses, such as the pest, the pox or the Transsylvanian fever."

The Irish reporter vanished, and another image emerged. An eager looking Rita Skeeter was interviewing a grey-haired wizard with a short beard and a very slow voice. Her blonde curls as rigid as ever and her lips were painted in a flaming coral red.

"... and after what happened tonight," the man said slowly, pausing for breath, "there are people who," he scratched his beard. "want Minister Fudge to resign."

"Just now are they considering his resignation?" Rita asked, her teeth flashing menacingly at the man. "They weren't thinking of this after the fiasco of Death Eaters entering the Ministry a few weeks ago?"

The man seemed to ignore that comment as he continued.

"Oh, well, of course Fudge will keep his calm..."

"Keep his calm," Ron snorted. "He's probably paralysed by fear. I don't get it why they don't just fire him."

Harry nodded grimly. Fudge was causing almost as much harm as the Death Eaters with his policy of 'keeping his calm and sitting things out,' while attacks on Muggles and Wizards were happening faster than anyone could react. Then he spotted Tonks and Hermione arriving by Port-key. Lupin wasn't with them any longer.

Then he spotted Tonks and Hermione arriving from one of the fireplaces. Lupin wasn't with them any longer.

Hermione's eyes were red, as if she had been crying for a while. Tonks smiled encouragingly and said something to her, Hermione nodded and walked over to them. She sat down with an exhausted sigh.

"At least they're safe now," she said softly.

"Who is the Secret-Keeper?" Harry asked. He still worried, despite the safety the Fidelius charm was meant to provide. The charm might be strong, but the keeper was a weak spot.

"Me," Hermione said. Then she grimaced. "They were so upset when they learned about the whole war thing. My mother went completely hysterical. I should have told them! I just thought... they didn't need to know."

Harry and Ron shared an awkward look. Hermione was almost crying again. And she never cried! They didn't know how to handle it. Ron gave her a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. She started to sob and he quickly drew his hand away as if she might explode any second.

Harry turned towards the watery screen once more. It showed Rita Skeeter, then a few images of Fudge and then a wildly gesticulating man who had a faint resemblance with Luna Lovegood. Hermione's parents were not alone in being completely hysterical about this. Everyone was, save Harry. Harry felt paralysed, numb and cold inside in the face of a world that turned dark, where no place was safe and nobody trustworthy, a world that rapidly slipped out of his grasp and then turned around to bare its fangs at him and bite.


	21. Far and Wide

_Note: The 3 scenes in the middle all have mythological background. The Naga are a part of Hindu myths, they are a serpent people believed to live in palaces under water. Kukulcán or Quetzalcoatl was a god of life and death and the main god of the Aztecs (there are also winged snakes in Potterverse, but according to FB, they live in Asia). The ritual with the tree and the stabbing is similar to what the god Odin does in Nordic myth. The 'ropes of fish's breath etc.' are the ropes that bind the wolf that will swallow the sun at the end of the world, according to Nordic myth. _

_Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence, as well as the depiction ofmultiple murders (although the victims are nothuman).If you're easily affected by that, please skip it, since it isn't essential for the plot. _

**Chapter 21 - Far and Wide**

After the death of the Riddles, nothing was as it had been. The idle dreams of Tom's youth were gone, replaced by a clear vision of what he would become. He forgot all about his mission to end what Salazar Slytherin had begun. The goal was to become perfect. He paid less attention to the secret society of the Knights of Walpurgis and his Head Boy duties. While the other students crammed for their NEWTs, he was researching immortality. The hardest was to keep a straight and smiling face as he lied to all of them and tried not to shout at their faces how pathetic they truly were.

He made a last visit to the Chamber of Secrets and took the few things that meant something to him: the private diaries of Salazar Slytherin and a few ancient texts about spells and potions. These texts, as old as they were, contained the most powerful knowledge he had yet come across. Salazar Slytherin, had been on the way to eternity, to unbelievable power – but he had started too late, had wasted too many years in this school and had in the end been deceived by his fellow Founders. Tom would not make this mistake. He was in the prime of his years, and he would not waste them.

There was only one thing missing: his own diary, created in fifth year and full of complicated magic. Originally it had been written to preserve this sixteen-year-old memory of himself so that one day it might control another student and open the Chamber again. But by now Tom had changed his mind about this. The diary wasn't flawless, it was experimental; it might make crucial mistakes. And even worse, the diary version of himself might be dangerous. It had the potential to free itself from the diary and become a powerful, corporeal creature and then it might do even more harm. Not that harm in general was bad. Harm to the Mudbloods was very good. But the flawed diary, forever sixteen, might do harm to Slytherin's cause. It might even expose the entry to the Chamber. Flawed as it was, it might even turn against him, its creator.

But the diary was gone. He had kept it with his other books and had not thought about it for a year. There was only one explanation: someone had stolen it.

It took Tom almost half a century to identify the thief, and then it happened only by coincidence. Alphard Black had taken it, and after his death a member of the Black family had taken it and given it to her daughter. Years later her husband discovered the true purpose of the diary. As luck would have it, this husband fancied himself the right-hand man of Lord Voldemort...

So Tom left Britain without the diary. His purpose was clear: gain knowledge, gain power, possibly even become immortal. Most sources told him that there were only two ways to true immortality: either you were born immortal, or you managed to create the Philosopher's Stone. But only once in history had the Stone been created and the only man knowing the formula was extremely reclusive, extremely paranoid and a close friend of Albus Dumbledore.

Had Tom acted more quickly, he might have gotten his hands on Nicholas Flamel. For a brief period after the Grindelwald incident that went all over the media, Dumbledore was said to be in bad shape. But he missed the chance. And not much later he decided that the Stone was imperfect: it granted immortality, but it could be stolen and destroyed and then it was not likely to be recreated.

In Prague he had talked with clandestine strangers. In Venice he had unwittingly signed a magical contract with a demon who let him read all the books of the ‚Bibliotheca Occulta' in exchange for the ability to taste food and feel the sun on his skin. In Delhi he had learned from a master of enchantment and mind possession how to control his natural talent at Legilimency. He had questioned oracles in the abyss of an Icelandic volcano. He had drained the minds of a whole witch order in Utah. He had visited the Western Indies to learn how to raise the dead. He had learned how to travel through the dreams of people in the heart of Africa. Hungrily he drifted from continent to continent, looking for answers, devouring knowledge. There were times when he enjoyed this life, when he learned for the sake of learning. But he was like a fire, the more wood you threw into it, the higher and hungrier the flames rose.

Slowly, as time went by and he gained in power and knowledge, patterns began to emerge. There were rules to magic, things you could do and things you couldn't do. Everything, he learned, had a price, and almost everything had hidden clauses. You couldn't have the strength of a vampire without being allergic to light. You couldn't have the enhanced senses of a werewolf without having to undergo a painful and useless transformation each full moon. Vampirism and lycanthrophy were like contagious illnesses: the price you paid was by far too high for what you got in return. But some things were worth their toll.

Give up his human looks in order to become immortal? All the better. He was not too attached to the handsome features of Tom Riddle anymore. Give up his humanity in order to be more than human? He would not mourn for it, weak and flawed as it was... what good had this human body or this human soul ever done for him? The only thing worth preserving was his mind and magic, his power...

He spent years with research and experimenting, always on the hunt for ingredients and information. He lived a life in shadows, apart from people, but always watching. He studied their moves, their voices, their minds. He learned how to extricate the deepest and darkest of secrets from their souls. He knew, once he was immortal, he would need this skill. He would use those people. They would form the stairs on his ascent to power.

The path to immortality would include several dangerous steps. The first steps would be to obtain an immensely powerful body. The only flaw it would have is that it would be vulnerable to Avada Kedavra, the words which severed the soul from the physical body making it irreversibly dead.

The soul was what held the different components of a human being together. It created a whole that was indivisible, the true atom of the human being; without it the mind, the memories and the personality would disintegrate and break apart. Normally, when a person died, the soul passed on and took all the other parts with it. Tom would create a copy of himself. He would have two minds, two sets of memories, two personalities – both perfectly identical, but one with a soul and one without it. The one with soul could die, dragged to death by the soul, but Tom would remain alive, incorporated by the soulless copy. Only things with souls could live and die, be it plants or men, but his soulless self would elegantly exist without living, and therefore be unable to die. No power in the world would be able to vanquish him.

The second group of steps would be to find that entity to go into the soulless copy so that with death of the body, this entity would not only not pass on but hold all the parts of his mind memories and personality together. It was risky. It was unheard of. But it in the end it would be failsafe and perfect: an immortal body could always somehow be destroyed, but an immortal spirit was truly invulnerable.

Lucknow, India  
1952

Wrapped in thick layers of silk and even thicker layers of scent, the Naga sat with crossed legs on a heap of cushions. The smell of Indian food, rice and spices, curry, ginger, pepper and hot butter seemed to ooze out of the very walls of the building, from the living quarters of the family below, even from the street. Blue clouds of smoke, heavy and sweet, swirled around their heads.

The Naga was a man, but other than that there was barely anything you could tell about him. His smooth, scaly skin betrayed no age; his golden eyes that had no eyelids were devoid of human emotions. He had no hair, but the bald, blunt head of a serpent. His thin lips were sucking smoke from the water pipe he cradled in his lap. But even in his relaxed position, the Naga had an air of royalty around him.

"There will be plenty of dowry," Tom repeated. He was not speaking in Parseltongue with the Naga, but in flawless Hindi. It was easy to learn all kinds of languages by magic. He had learned to absorb knowledge out of people's heads and books. "Give me one of your daughters, Lord Narada."

Several of the cushions around Lord Narada were not cushions at all. They were the huge, golden coils of snake bodies. The scales of these undulating bodies shimmered beautifully like jewels and diamonds. They were Lord Narada's daughters, princesses of the Naga, serpents as huge as a fully grown python.

The Naga had inhabited India long before mankind. They had been a serpent people, living under the water in holy rivers and secretive places. The Hindu religion had worshipped them as demigods, but they were more than mythological creatures. Able to appear in a serpent's body and in a human body, they possessed immense magical power.

"My daughters are of noble birth and they belong to me, foreign wizard," Lord Narada said.

Tom kept his expression calm at the insult. He even smiled. "Lord Narada, your nobility is but a title. The time of your reign is long gone." Narada, having been a lord for thousands of years, was now a poor man without a kingdom. He laid aside the water pipe and stood up gracefully. Tom reciprocated. One of the daughters raised her snake's head and looked at them, then slithered back among the cushions.

"In the old time, a warrior who entered our kingdom uninvited would have to fight one of our warriors," Narada said in a voice that did not betray his anger. He was challenging Tom to a duel. "They would compete against each other and the loser would be killed. Your kind never won."

Tom lazily pointed his wand at Narada. "They never won because they weren't my kind, Lord Narada. They were but Muggles."

As quick as a hunting snake strikes at an unsuspecting mouse, Narada moved forward, intending to break his bones with his strong, inhuman hands. But Tom was faster. He vanished from the spot, appearing behind Narada and pointed his wand at the Naga's scaly neck. He didn't even have to utter the spell that ripped the age-old body apart. In the matter of seconds, he had added another scent to the room, the smell of blood, forever impregnated into the walls and floor. It was red as human blood, but luke-warm as the Indian rain on Tom's face and bare arms.

"Blood of a Serpent," Tom whispered in Parseltongue as he collected the blood in small pewter jars. His expression was ecstatic. The Naga daughter lifted her blunt head again. She slithered across the ground, over the body of her father and nudged the wizard's feet. Tom bent down to touch her head admiringly. His hand, covered in blood, left slick traces on her scales.

"I belong to nobody," she hissed in Parseltongue.

"So do I," Tom answered.

When they met again years and years later, in the woods of a country far away, he but a ghost and she a wanderer, he would call her Nagini, in honour of her forefathers.

Aztec Pyramid of Chichén Itza, Mexico  
1963

The sunset over the frayed silhouette of the jungle looked like a firestorm, but the sky above the pyramid was already clear blue and littered with stars. In the tree tops, hidden birds called for the night in witch-like voices.

The pyramid stood in a great clearing, many shadowy steps until it reached the temple on top, eighty feet high. It was made of pale stone with strange patterns and figures were carved into it; they seemed to come to life in the darkness that crept in from the forest. It had once been the temple of the serpent god Kukulcán, also known as Quetzalcoatl, the Winged Serpent God.

For centuries, no one had made offerings to Kukulcán.

Tom Riddle, thirty-six years old by now, was a man of tall and lean build. He had changed quite a bit since his school years. His skin, usually pale, was tanned from travelling in many southern countries. Power and age made his motions smooth and his stance confident. All this showed in his face: he looked determined and more stable than ever before. But underneath these very human changes, others had taken place. It was in his eyes. They were red and cold as the eyes of an albino snake.

Tom's hands were also red. Diamond-coloured feathers clung to them. Up in the temple he had danced with a Serpent God and felt its powerful embrace. With the mighty curls of Kukulcán's body around him, he had listened to the tale of the Feathered Serpent God. He had caressed the smooth scales and learned of the fate of Kukulcán's people: the Aztec culture that had seen its decline long before and had left behind this lonely shadow of a god.

He had listened patiently to the mournful elaborate speech, his mind occupied with the creature's beauty and the prize he would soon obtain. In the end he had convinced the serpent that death at his hands was the only possible end of its misery. It was a pity that he had to kill Kukulcán, he thought even as he thrust the ritual dagger into the soft flesh. It was such a graceful being, but it had tied his heart foolishly to the humans who had worshipped it.

Just as the sun died, Tom ripped the diamond heart of the serpent out of its body.

Now holding it in his hands, a clear jewel the size of a human head, Tom left the top of the pyramid, climbing down the many steps. After a few minutes, he stopped and sat down, examining the heavy crystalline heart. Its light was quickly fading from the stone, and Tom could feel the power passing into him. His breath went faster, power rushed through his body in harsh waves. Dizziness followed, he broke into a cold sweat and there was a painful sting in his chest. The jewel slipped out of his hands and he fell back against the stone.

It was sun-warmed and smooth against his cold, damp skin. Then this feeling left him, too. Fear flickered over his contorted features as he lay helpless like a human sacrifice before the temple. The stars and the earth seemed to tear at him. Finally, his own heart stopped beating and he could gradually breathe again.

He smiled weakly, staring at the sky above him. One step closer.

Albania  
1969

In the heart of the night, a man was bleeding to death.

Crooked trees were leaning close together, and in their shadows many shady creatures dwelt. A cauldron close by was empty and the fire underneath it was long extinguished.

Tied to a tree, the man had been bleeding for nine days.

There had been a potion in the cauldron, made out of the blood of serpents, the heart of a serpent and the skin of a serpent. But not just any serpent. A Naga, a Feathered Serpent God and a Basilisk had each made a contribution.

Silvery ropes, woven from fish's breath and a cat's footfall, from the roots of a mountain and the spittle of a bird, tied him to the tree and were cutting into his numb skin.

His left eye had been stabbed. His neck. His hands. His right side. His feet. His forehead, between the eyes. His heart.

There were eight wounds from which his human blood had been flowing at first, then dripping and now there was barely a drop of it left anymore.

His uninjured eye was closed. He barely taking in air. His original heart had stopped beating, six years before. His skin was pale as bones. His hair, once black, had greyed in the last few days and fallen from his head in whole streaks until he was bald as a skull. His hands were claws, his nails cutting into his palms in the aftermath of agony.

At the foot of the tree, the ground was black and sticky. The man waited for his last breath to leave. The man was closer to death than he had been in all his life. For many years into the future, he would not come closer to it.

The moment passed in silence, and then a strange process took place. All the wounds closed on their own accord, mended together by invisible threads. The lost blood was replaced by new, inhuman liquids. The man raised his head and sucked in a sharp breath. He opened his eyes. Both were red as dark rubies. He balled his thin fingers into fists, releasing the breath.

The man formerly known as Tom Riddle had been reborn.

Britain  
1969

He had not yet shown himself to anybody but the mirror on the wall. This house had been bought by somebody who had never seen his face but who was firmly under the Imperius Curse.

He could see himself in the mirror.

His cheeks were gaunt and white. His red eyes had slits for pupils now. He didn't have hair anymore. And his nose looked a little changed, too, flatter and inhuman. He was hideous, and he knew it. But he was pleased. Only now his body expressed his being in its great and terrible entirety.

He touched his lips in awe. They were thin and frosty.

Blood, heart and skin of serpents. A few other, powerful ingredients. He had created the formula himself. The blood of the Naga would make him immune to all potions, poisons and illnesses. The heart of Kukulcán would protect him from all injury by weapons and physical forces. It would also keep him from aging, for Kukulcán could not die of old age. The skin of the basilisk, something he had brought with him from the Chamber of Secrets, would protect him from most spells and curses. It was nearly impervious to magic. He was almost unbreakable now, almost invulnerable. But there were still ways to kill him. A wizard as powerful as himself would be able to kill him with the Killing Curse. There were few as powerful as that. Dumbledore, of course. The thought haunted him, hang over his head like a blade ready to fall.

The closer he was to his aim, the more apparent it became to him that someone, somehow, would try and take it away from him, steal his power, steal his life. They could not possibly bear to have one as perfect as him among them, could they?

Once the world learned of his achievements, of his immortality, they would shiver in fear, and they would make plans to overthrow him...

He stared at himself in the mirror. He could almost see it, the treacherous light of the soul around him. The spark that could still trick him into dying, that would drag him to death. He wished to tear it out of his chest with his hands.

The last of his Transformations would take place in a few days.


	22. The Road to Hell

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Road To Hell**

Harry slept badly that night. Images of Death Eater attacks kept mixing with strange things in his dreams. Early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, he woke up once more, his head pressed against the headboard. His scar was itching and aching and he had a heavy, nauseous feeling in his stomach. What was it he had dreamt?

He remembered being tied to something; Professor Quirrell was wearing one of Dumbledore's hats instead of his turban. Quirrell had tried to force him to look into the Mirror of Erised, but Harry knew that he shouldn't look at the mirror, because it was actually a boggart and something horrible would happen if he did. In the end he looked and he saw that the Mirror was broken, showing him two identical images of himself. One was holding the Philosopher's Stone; the other had empty hands and was surrounded by people who were smiling and embracing him: his Mum and Dad, and Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys and Hagrid and Sirius and Professor Lupin...

Why was that dream causing him to feel a frightful sense of vertigo? It wasn't that scary, was it? He also saw no connection to Voldemort. Lately, dreams of Voldemort had been rare. Since the last attack and the subsequent fit of anger from Voldemort, things had changed. There was the constant feeling of slight pain in his scar and something that might almost be called euphoria from the connection with Voldemort. Well, the Dark Lord had a lot of reasons to be happy, Harry thought darkly.

Now that he was awake, he got up. Ron was buried under his covers. Harry dressed and picked up his firebolt. Hermione and Ginny, who had come to Hogwarts the evening before, were also still in bed.

The Hogwarts grounds were empty and quiet. It was a clear, gusty Saturday morning, perfect for flying, but he couldn't concentrate. After a while the nausea went away and he felt better. He wished to do something, to be active. He hated having to wait until bad things happened to him.

Lost in thoughts, Harry spotted a very small, brown-haired figure standing by one of the Quidditch stands. He dropped out of the sky, a perfect Wronski Feint, and nearly toppled off his broom ten feet away from Hermione.

She was standing in the shadows; her bushy hair tangled by the soft wind, and looked very young and fragile in a simple pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. For a fraction of a second she reminded Harry of Cho; he was shocked and confused and wondered whether he was actually thinking of her in a different way all. Then he noticed her puffy reddened eyes and helpless looks, and knew that she reminded him of Cho because she was crying; she was still pretty while doing so, but also very disconcerting.

"Hermione?" Harry asked with a breaking voice. "Are you... did something happen?"

She nodded, yet shook her head at the same time, scrunching up her face and trying not to cry more. Then she bit her lower lip, averting her eyes. She mumbled something which he didn't understand. Harry came closer and she almost flinched away.

"What's up? Is it – did something happen to your parents?" Again, she shook her head. Suddenly she looked up at him, bracing herself and her look made him want to run away. Whatever it was she wanted to say, he was afraid to hear it.

"Harry, there's something I found out," Hermione suddenly said. "Something about the Veil."

"The Veil? The Veil in the ministry? The one –".

"Please, don't interrupt me. Oh, this is so stupid, I know you'll ... promise me you'll hear me to the end, Harry! Promise me you won't do anything stupid!"

"Of course," Harry stammered. Had she discovered a way to get behind the Veil? A way to rescue Sirius? If so why was she crying?

"I was in Diagon Alley a few days ago, after you told me about the prophecy, and I met Mr Ollivander there, the wand maker. He gave me a book, a diary, of some ancestor of his." Hermione paused her account to get her erratic breath under control.

"That ancestor worked for the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries before he became a wand-maker. And he discovered what they used the Veil for, Harry. It's... well, back then, they had no Dementors... and they still had the death penalty."

"You die when you fall through the veil," Harry realised. So that was why they would have such a dangerous device in the Ministry. Death Penalty. Hermione was staring at him, and he didn't like her look at all. Why was she so troubled over this discovery? It didn't change anything for Sirius. He was puzzled and she saw it.

"That's not everything," she whispered. "I read more ... I just can't go on not telling you. I can't keep this to myself any longer! You don't just die when you go behind the Veil ... they wanted something worse than death ... it's like Azkaban. Like hell. You relive your life, to pay for your ... sins."

A long, sudden silence passed over them, during which neither said a word or made a sound or even moved an inch.

"You must be wrong," Harry stammered. He shivered despite the warmth and the light all around him.

"Hell doesn't exist, not really. It can't be hell! I heard my parents behind the Veil! And Luna heard hers!" he was shouting frantically now. "They cannot be in hell! And Mum and Dad never went through the Veil! You just die when you go through it ... and you meet your... loved ones ...".

It took Hermione a tremendous effort to stay calm, he could see it on her face. And yet she talked to him in her best reasonable voice.

"It's a trick, Harry. It's just a trick to lure people closer to the Veil. Of course your parents aren't there." She was talking to him like a parent to a child. "You just thought you heard them. There's no reason your parents should be there."

"There's no reason Sirius should be there!" Harry screamed back at her. "HE'S INNOCENT! He – he doesn't deserve this! First Azkaban, then this ...".

The thought of Sirius reliving Azkaban and Peter's treason and Grimmauld Place until the end of time renewed his anger of the injustice of it all. He dropped his broom and whirled the snitch he had been clutching against the tribune with such a force that the little wings broke and it fell limply to the ground. Hermione winced.

"It just ISN'T FAIR!" Harry roared, trying desperately not to cry.

"And once again Dumbledore tells me nothing! He must have known it! LIAR!"

"Maybe he didn't know it, Harry. It was kept secret by the ministry ...," Hermione pleaded in a small voice.

"I DON'T CARE! The ministry knows, but nobody gives a damn! Because it's just Sirius! As if anybody ever cared about him! He's useless to their schemes!"

"Harry, even if they know about it what can they do? They probably didn't want to hurt us - "

"But you felt like hurting me?" Harry spat at her. "At least you're honest! Or did you just want to show off a bit of extra knowledge?" He was angry beyond his wits; new tears welled up in Hermione's eyes at his words.

"Shut up!" she cried. "You're not the only one who loved Sirius! I knew him just as well as you did! AND I DID CARE!"

Suddenly a cramped silence hung over the Quidditch pitch. They were panting from all the screaming. Hot tears shone on Hermione's cheeks. Harry was biting his lip, grinding his teeth, and then, very slowly, his eyes got misty behind his glasses and he started to cry. Harsh sobs whacked his shoulders and his knees got weak. Finally he broke down on the dry grass, clutching it with his hands, tearing at it.

Hermione closed the distance between them and came to embrace him, like a mother would have hugged her child, stroking his back, letting his tears soak her shoulder.

"It's just not fair... just not fair," Harry sobbed, over and over. He thought of Sirius, of the things Remus had said about him by the grave. Such a childhood, such injustice, all those dark years, all the frustration ... and yet he had never strayed from his path. How could such a person be punished again? How could it be that he will never find peace... how could it be that they were so helpless ...

+

Hermione quietly led Harry away from the Quidditch pitch and back to Gryffindor tower. He mounted the stairs with such a blind and empty look on his face that she feared he would trip and fall and then just lie on the ground and not get up again. The only word she said was the password for the portrait hole.

When they entered, Ginny and Ron were already waiting. Ginny was reading a book and Ron was picking at a sandwich.

"Hey –," Ron stopped in mid sentence and stared at them. "What happened?"

Harry just sat down in a single chair and leaned his broom against it. Hermione chose the sofa Ginny was sitting on.

"What happened?" Ron repeated his question. "Where have you been?"

Hermione gazed at Harry. He didn't look at her. "Tell them," he said in a flat voice.

What had she done? What had she done to him? Hermione's thoughts raced in mounting panic. He looked worse now than he had after Cedric's death, worse even than he had looked right after Sirius' death. Had she done the wrong thing by telling him her secret?

She told Ron and Ginny what she had told Harry, careful to be exact without being too cruel in her choice of words. Still she could see Harry's expression becoming stony and cold with her words.

"Oh no," Ginny said, her voice tight and angry. "Why did this have to happen to Sirius?"

"Can't we do something?" Ron asked.

"Ron, I'm sure if there was something that could be done, Dumbledore would have done it," Hermione replied. There was no objection from Ron and Ginny, but Harry's voice cut into the silence like a heavy blade.

"Dumbledore would think of a number of reasons why we shouldn't do it now." Harry got up and walked across the room and back. He cast a dark look at the portrait frames on the wall. " His main concern is this war between him and Voldemort. If we want to rescue Sirius, we have to do it on our own."

"Harry, you know that isn't true. Dumbledore does care about Sirius. But Sirius is dead. How can he help him?" Hermione asked, trying her best to sound calm and reasonable. She knew it was most unlikely that Harry would listen to reason. But perhaps she could at least convince Ron and Ginny.

Harry turned to her, looking a little surprised. He stopped pacing.

"How?" he echoed. A clock chimed and then silence fell over them again. Her friends were all looking at Hermione.

"Look," she said. "After Sirius fell through the Veil, and I recovered from my injuries, I immediately started to look for answers in the library. I did the same when I went to Diagon Alley this summer and I will continue doing it. But the only book I've found so far that tells us anything about the Veil is the diary Ollivander gave me. How can we help Sirius if we don't know anything about the Veil?"

Ginny nodded and so did Ron. Harry merely looked impatient. "I know that if I step through the Veil, I will be where Sirius is."

"If you step through the Veil, you will be dead!" Ginny cried furiously. "How can you even think about that, Harry?"

Harry leaned his head against the window where he had been standing. He traced his scar with two fingers, then he closed his eyes. He looked thin and tired. "I can think about it because I've been thinking about death constantly."

He turned to look at them, but still leaned against the window frame for support. "I have a prophecy that says I will die. The most powerful sorcerer of our time is trying to kill me. People die around me, all the time!"

"The most powerful sorcerer is Dumbledore, not Voldemort," Hermione replied. She knew that Harry didn't believe what he was saying.

"Maybe," Harry said flatly. "But I'm not Dumbledore and I'll never be him. I don't even want to."

He picked up his broom and turned around to mount the stairs to the boys' dormitory. Then he looked at them again.

"I'll find a way to rescue Sirius. That is something I can do."

Hermione looked back at him and remained silent. She had said all she had to say. She felt if she said anymore it might drive Harry to do something irrational. Ron looked stricken. He wanted to be on Harry's side, but Hermione knew that she had convinced him. Only Ginny still dared to object.

"It's selfish," she said in her clear, high voice. "I know you didn't ask for it, Harry, but you are the only one who can defeat Voldemort. Nobody else can. What are we to do if you die? It's selfish of you."

He stared at her as if she had just betrayed him in the worst possible way. His face became cold and remote. "You don't understand me. I'm doing it for Sirius" he whispered.

"No, you're not," Ginny told him, even as he turned to mount the stairs. "You're doing it for yourself. Sirius wouldn't want you to."

+

Harry went through the day in shock. He was constantly thinking about Sirius. His mind repeated the memory of his godfather falling through the Veil, over and over again.

That night when he was alone in his bed –he pretended to be asleep so as not to talk to Ron- he gave serious thought to everything Hermione had said. Logically he knew she was right. But his heart told him something else. Didn't Dumbledore say something about his heart saving him in the end?

But Dumbledore and Hermione wouldn't help him. Not now and possibly not ever. Harry had to act now if he wanted to help Sirius. The war would not stop for him and he could never know when he would have to face Voldemort again. He could never know if he would survive that confrontation...

No, he had to act now. He had to go to London, to the Ministry and to the Veil. He would listen to the voices that came from behind the Veil. Perhaps he would hear Sirius?

Hermione could protest as much as she wanted but this was what Harry had to do. Hadn't he been dreaming about carrying a bright light over a desolate plain? Perhaps this was what he would do behind the Veil. After he was certain Ron was asleep he got his Invisibility Cloak, the satchel with Sirius' broken mirror, the pocket knife he had given him for his birthday and all the money he had, then he slipped out of the castle.

Everything went surprisingly smooth until he reached the road to Hogsmeade. Harry was just about to point his wand hand at the road to call the Knight Bus, when out of the dark, a tall figure appeared on the road. Harry froze – suddenly his body didn't pay attention to the orders he was giving it anymore. Some kind of magic had happened, even though Harry had heard no spell.

Night was pitch black on the road, Harry was wearing his invisibility cloak – and yet the man was looking directly at his face. His hoarse voice sounded amused.

"So," the tall man said, pointing his right hand at him. It was dark, so Harry couldn't quite see whether he was carrying a wand in it or not. The wizard had certainly paralysed him quite effectively, though.

At first he thought it was Professor Dumbledore, but it wasn't. The beard was too short.

"Where were you going, Mr Potter? Visiting your old pal Voldemort?" And Dumbledore would definitely never have spoken in such a dangerous voice.

Harry struggled against the charm holding him, but the magic held him tightly in place. However he could still talk.

"How can you see me?" he asked furiously, trying to stall.

"You wouldn't ask my brother if he saw right through that cloak, wouldn't you?" the wizard asked and Harry realised that it was Aberforth Dumbledore, Order member and bartender of the Hog's Head.

Dumbledore's brother lowered his hand and Harry was released from the spell. They were standing alone on the dark road to Hogsmeade and it was about half past one in the night.

"So, where were you going? I can see through your cloak, but only Albus can see through your thick head."

"I was just taking a walk." Harry knew he wouldn't get to London tonight, but if he didn't tell Dumbledore's brother where he had been headed, then maybe he'd get another chance.

"And you weren't just about to point your wand hand at the road? You're not the only one who knows how to call the Knight Bus, lad. I don't need such ways to travel, though. Maybe it would be safer to go with me," the man offered.

"As if you would bring me anywhere but back to Hogwarts," Harry answered in a sullen voice.

"Depends on why and where you wanted to go. I don't believe Voldemort lurks behind every bush, I don't even think he expects you to be anywhere but at Hogwarts. So you want to go somewhere. Why not?"

Aberforth sounded serious. Maybe... Dumbledore thought him mad, didn't he? Maybe the strange wizard would help him.

"London," Harry admitted cautiously.

"How ordinary," Aberforth replied, raising a brow ironically. In the dark he looked even less like his brother. He had the rough features of a statue carved from granite with primitive tools, and his beard and rugged hair didn't shimmer like the moon at all. They were grey as the fur of a wolf.

"The Department of Mysteries," Harry ventured. "Now you're going to take be back to Hogwarts, right?"

"Not at all. I suppose your interest lies in something specific. Maybe you want to see the future? Or the power the Dark Lord knows not? Or maybe ... you want to talk to the dead?"

Harry winced. Aberforth nodded slowly, then he grabbed Harry's shoulder and quickly led him away from the road, into the dark wood. Under the trees it was too dark to see anything. What was he going to do? Suddenly Harry was afraid. Why did he trust the man? He might be a Death Eater spy, or an impostor like Barty Crouch Jr. The shadows became corporeal, dangerous, as they strode between age-old trees, their feet soundless on the moss.

"A very long time ago, wizards used to know death intimately," Aberforth said while they were still walking. His voice was more serious and more smooth than usual.

"They didn't fear it, and when Muggles wanted to talk to their beloved dead, wizards helped them to do so. We had ways to travel other lands than this world, ways to walk on the dark hills, ways to talk to the dead. But then the age of reason came, and religion of a different kind came upon us, years went by and now we fear and misunderstand death, wizards and Muggles alike."

They reached a part of the forest that was almost a swamp. Inky waters and islands of weeds made a path where you could easily be swallowed by the moist soil. But the old wizard led Harry with dreamlike ease, as if he were walking on a hidden path Harry couldn't see.

"Today, we have magical theories. We have books and scientists and scientific devices. Mysteries are to be unravelled, myths to be dismantled. If someone claimed to walk with the dead, he would be put into St Mungo's. My brother thinks that I am behind the times, brilliant but mad, because I refuse to live in such modern times."

Harry was unable to open his mouth and speak, because he was so caught up in following the wizard through the shadows, in worrying about Sirius and worrying about what Dumbledore's brother might do or want from him. He felt as if this were all a nightmare in which invisible, unknown obstacles prevent you from running away fast enough.

Aberforth stopped. The moon shone like a pale ghost on the black swampland, as if they had quietly passed the border between the real world and what lay beyond.

"Today, there are Dark and Light Arts," Aberforth explained. "But what I practise is a magic beyond colour and naming. It comes to me, takes from me, and gives to me. It's natural, not supernatural. I can let you talk to your dead, Harry Potter. But be aware that my brother would disagree, that he thinks this is dark magic."

"How?" asked Harry. He wasn't sure exactly what he was asking: How this magic was dark, or how it was done. He missed Hermione who would probably understand this better and Ron who would probably tell him not to trust the man. But would he heed their advice?

Aberforth turned to him. He put back the hood of his threadbare cloak. Underneath he revealed feathers and little pearls of bone in his hair, and around his neck he wore a chain with teeth, feral and dangerous looking. He reminded Harry of an Indian medicine man, only he was real, and rather scary. His lined cheeks were hollow, his long nose like a beak, his eyes alight with energy. Harry backed away, feeling for his wand. Aberforth remained unfazed.

"You will be able to leave your body. You will be able to walk with the dead. You will be able to return to your body within seven times the sun rising and setting," And Harry stopped in the middle of raising his wand.

"Will I be able to go behind the Veil and come back?"

If Voldemort himself had made him this offer, would he have been able to refuse?

"Behind any Veil."

Harry did not hesitate long as this was the answer he was seeking. If somebody had made him an offer like that a year ago and he had known that Dumbledore would object, he probably wouldn't have done it. It sounded horribly dangerous. But since then he had learned that the headmaster was making mistakes like everybody else. Dumbledore had tried to steer Harry towards the end the prophecy predicted and he had left him in the dark about it. That had cost Sirius' life. Hadn't Dumbledore told him that life was all about choices? His decision was made.

"I want to," Harry answered firmly.


	23. Severing the Ties

_Note: I'm not an expert in reading Tarot cards, but the cards Alphard lays for Tom do have a meaning. They basically symbolize Tom's life, from his distant past to his future, his personality and his aims. When I wrote this chapter, JKR had not yet used Tarot cards in canon, but now we know that they are used by wizards and witches. _

_Warning: This chapter contains a minor character death, but of a character who is already dead in canon. _

**Chapter Twenty – Three : Severing the Ties **

England  
1969

The daylight was already weakening in the west. It was December and the fields of Yorkshire were coated in hoarfrost and ice. Leafless skeletons of trees grew into the grey sky.

Tom Riddle was walking, he wanted to savour the last hours of this stage of his life. Before the end of this day, he would cease to be Tom Riddle. He didn't have a name yet for what he was to become, but it stood clear in front of his eyes. Perfection. Immortality. Power.

He wore a hooded cloak, but not against the cold. It hid a head bald and pale as a skull and eyes the colour of thick blood. All of his physical transformations were done. The blood of serpents rendered him immune against all poisons and illnesses. The heart of a serpent god kept him from ageing. The skin of the basilisk made his body nearly impervious to magic and spells. He came the closest to immortality and invulnerability any human had ever achieved. The only kind of beings that were closer to immortality were demons, beings whose life essences weren't held together by a soul but simply by magic and who therefore couldn't die, as you needed a soul to be killed by the killing curse. And Tom had found a way to become that kind of being.

Many complex and painful magical rituals had copied every part of his personality, his memories and his mind, so that now he possessed every part of himself twice, except for his soul, which couldn't be copied. It was a process not unlike the creation of his diary, but much more refined. As soon as he triggered the process, the two copies would split, creating two separate versions of himself, one with a soul to hold the essence together and one with binding magic to hold it together.

He came here to trigger this process.

Passing by a stable, he walked up to the old manor that was his destination. It was a handsome, well-kept house on a small estate through which a small river flowed. A dog howled, a couple of pale horses with ruddy coats turned their heads. A black cat eyed him shrewdly from under an evergreen bush. He touched the knocker on the wooden door, but without knocking, the door gave away under his touch.

The hall was dark, the tall mirrors reflected only gloom and shadows. A shred of light came from under a door at the end of the hall. Noiselessly he walked over to it and pressed on the handle.

The room behind it was a brightly lit drawing-room. The interior was very expensive, early 19th century in style, with huge windows and plenty of bookshelves. Opposite the door there was a grate with a fire. His snake's eyes could see the heat like a blazing sun. On the mantelpiece sat several clocks along with a golden hourglass. But all seemed to have stopped, just like time in this room.

It was impossible to tell which era it was, today or a century ago, not even from the wizard seated at the huge wooden table with his back to the fire. He was fair-haired, his age difficult to tell but his features sharp and handsome. His trousers, shirt and tie were, surprisingly, Muggle-style, but so old-fashioned that only a wizard would be wearing them. He was studying a set of cards before him on the table, the kind of cards used by fortune-tellers, with colourful, suggestive images.

The wizard was so absorbed by these images that he did not look up or acknowledge the intruder. Tom watched him as he picked up the cards and shuffled them and then he slowly walked closer, around the table.

The man did not look up, but a smile crept over his lips. "Punctual as ever," he said softly. He began to lay the cards on the table once more, one by one, in an intricate pattern. The Magician, Justice reversed, Death.

"You expected me, Alphard, after twenty years? You're a fool," Tom said coldly. In the twenty years they hadn't seen each other, he had transformed into a wholly different being, but Alphard didn't seem to have changed one bit.

"Why, you came here, didn't you? The cards told me so." The Sun reversed, Strength reversed, the Hanged Man.

"The cards. So you still believe in that rubbish?" Tom laughed, but the sound surprised him and he stopped quickly. He hadn't laughed since his latest transformation. It was a thin, high-pitched sound, alien to him.

Alphard shrugged and gestured at the many empty chairs. "Sit down, please. It's nicer to talk that way."

Hanging his black cloak over another chair, he sat down to the right of Alphard, who was sitting at the head of the table. Alphard glanced up at him for a long moment. By taking off the hooded cloak, Tom had revealed his new look: bald head, red eyes, skin as pale as a corpse. If Alphard thought him ugly or frightening, he didn't show it. Instead he resumed the laying of the cards. Only now his hands were shaking a little.

"Do you like my new self?" Tom asked, deliberately disturbing the delicate process.

"Just as well as your old self," Alphard replied evenly. Almost indifferently.

"Be careful with your words, Black," Tom warned. "I've come to –"

"- kill me," Alphard finished his sentence. "I'm aware of that. And if I were afraid of you, I would be running, wouldn't I?" His tone was suddenly sharp.

"But you should be afraid," Tom replied. He had not expected Alphard to know of his intention. The boy he had known had always had an uncanny liking for Divination, but now he seemed to have developed some serious skill. Still, Alphard amused him. He was laying his life into Tom's hands, probably thinking that it would grant him mercy, but it wouldn't.

The Tower, the Chariot, the Devil. Alphard said nothing more about the cards as he continued to turn them around and uncover their pictures, but Tom knew without asking that his future was being predicted. Despite himself, he was fascinated by the cards and their master. He did not believe in Divination and yet there were some true prophecies.

"Images of evil and destruction. Are you trying to make some kind of statement, Alphard?" he asked mockingly.

"The truth is not a statement. I do not believe in choices, Tom. I believe in fate. And without choices, there is no evil. Destruction, yes, but no evil."

"You're wrong," Tom retorted. He was getting irritated. "I'm making choices. I am choosing to kill you."

"So why are you choosing to kill me?" Alphard asked.

"To reach immortality. I have honed this body into a perfect shell. I've long surpassed the boundaries of humanity. One thing remains that makes me mortal, though. My soul."

"A curious notion. Isn't the soul supposed to be immortal?"

"The soul is nothing! This is merely a symbolic act to finish a ritual. I'll appoint you as my tie to humanity. Normally that would be blood relatives, but as you well know I have none. By killing you, I'll sever that tie. My soul will be split from the rest of me and that rest will no longer be human or mortal. Isn't that a noble and worthy cause to be dying for? Your death will forever prevent mine." Tom laughed. He was beginning to like the sound. It felt great to finally reveal his plan to someone. A plan as great as this one wasn't meant to remain unknown.

"Forever is a measure too great to understand, Tom."

"For human beings," Tom answered derisively. "Not for me."

"So you will cease to be human? Will you try to throw away all that has hurt you? Who will you be then, if you're not Tom Riddle anymore? Lord Voldemort?" Alphard asked, his voice clipped and provoking. Tom could see that he was angry and knowing that Alphard would soon die, allowed him that useless emotion. The reminder of that childhood name surprised him though. Lord Voldemort. It was true, he had finally become worthy of that name.

"Why not? Lord Voldemort. Stolen from death. Your death will free me from humanity."

To his surprise, Alphard suddenly smiled widely. In a surge of wariness, Tom probed into the other man's mind, but he found no menace, only a strange emotion, blinding and somewhat hurting, something he couldn't understand. He withdrew.

"That's good," Alphard said gently. "You'll give me your soul. A nice parting gift, Lord Voldemort."

And in the pattern of cards on the table, he uncovered the final one, standing at the end of the line: Love. Tom's lips twitched angrily. Alphard was playing mind games, the way he always had.

"Enough," Tom said angrily and got up.

Alphard passed a last look over the cards and gathered them into a neat stack. Then he got up, too. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out an envelope with the seal of the House of Black. 'Last Will' it said in black ink. So it had not all been a lie. Alphard had expected Tom to kill him.

"When you're done," Black said softly, "don't burn the house down, please. It is meant to be sold. I have a young nephew whom I'm quite fond of; the money is to be his. But now... proceed."

He put the envelope onto the table and turned to Tom, eyeing him with a weary sadness. Tom pulled off his black gloves and for a moment they stared at each other openly. How many times had he now looked into a man's eyes before killing him? He saw no fear now. He's mad, he thought.

"_I appoint this man my tie to humanity_," Tom said solemnly. Nothing visible changed, but he could feel the magic close in on Alphard as soon as he said it.

Tom raised his hands and put them around Alphard's throat. The skin was curiously warm and soft under his touch, bringing up memories he couldn't name or place.

"_To sever the ties of humanity, they must die by your hand,_" he forced himself to say.

"A tie of humanity," Alphard whispered, sounding mesmerised for a moment. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"_Death severs the ties_," Tom continued.

"You're terrible. To tell me this right before you kill me," he whispered, just as Tom curled his fingers around Alphard's blond hair and pulled backwards with all his strength. The neck snapped with a horrible, final sound, and both killer and victim dropped to the ground simultaneously.

Like a blade made of lightning, it went through Tom, more painful than anything he had ever felt. All the changes he'd gone through, all the things he had had to endure flashed in front of his eye for a second, as if he was going through them again and again. All his bones seemed to snap in two, all his flesh was ripped apart, his blood was boiling and freezing, and he was splitting in two, splitting...

There was a world of darkness inside him, devoid of feeling.


	24. Sacrifice

_Note: This was the first chapter written after the release of HBP. I expected "In Essence Divided" to become an AU, however I was also jossed on Tom's backstory/characterisation. Such is the fate of a writer in an open canon!_

Many thanks to my beta rambkowalczyk.

**Chapter 24 – Sacrifice **

Albus Dumbledore was tired enough to fall asleep in his chair, but considerable amounts of tea and all the things he had to worry about kept him awake. At the moment, he was looking over the reports from Aurors and Order members. With every parchment, the night weighed heavier on him. They still had no intelligence about Voldemort's plans, but one thing was certain: there would be more attacks.

At least Harry was safe at Hogwarts.

A man of his age and experience could not help but become jaded in some aspects of life. If he tried very hard not to let each name on the list of casualties hurt him with the knowledge that it was not just a name, he was able to look at every single battle and yet still see the bigger picture. But it made him feel cold and weary inside. In these darker hours he clung to the bright and hopeful love he felt for Harry.

He loved Harry but not because he identified with this boy. In many aspects, Harry was as different from Albus as a boy as it was possible. Albus and his brother grew up in a loving family; Harry had the Dursleys who provided him grudgingly with what they had. Magic was easy for Albus, while Harry although proving to be a powerful wizard, was not as adept as Albus was as a teenager. Albus didn't love him out of pity for his hard destiny, either. He loved Harry for who he was, for being such a brave, innocent, and loving person. But love could also be a dangerous thing, because love made it impossible to stay impartial, impossible not to wish and to hope.

His first thought when he heard the stone gargoyle opening the door and the revolving staircase was that it was probably Severus, coming to report. But instead, two of the children entered his office. Seeing them made him smile, but his smile fell when he noticed their frightened expressions and hurried steps.

"Professor –" Hermione began, but he stopped her with a raised hand. A sudden sinking feeling in his stomach told him that there was no time to lose.

"Calm down, Miss Granger and look at me," he said, while gathering his powers of Legilimency. She had every intention to tell him everything and practically screamed her thoughts at him.

Harry was gone. He quickly went through her recollections of their conversation in the morning, stopping dead at the mention of the diary.

"Ollivander?" he muttered.

"Sir, I –" Hermione began again, but something in his expression made her stop. Dumbledore realised that he was showing his anger at Ollivander and that it was scaring the children. He tried to compose himself and speak in a gentler tone.

"Miss Granger, do me a favour and think of your conversation with Mr Ollivander, would you?"

She did, and he watched her memories. Ollivander had given the girl a diary. There was no doubt that it was really Ollivander, nobody could have imitated him that perfectly.

And yet something was utterly wrong. Ollivander had told Hermione that her wand belonged to an ancestor of his. But this made no sense. Albus knew that Ollivander was no longer human. More than two thousand years ago, he was a wizard who yearned to discover the means of concentrating magic so that ordinary wizards could easily perform spells and incantations. Back then, wands had not yet been invented and Ollivander had made a deal with a demon for the secret of wand-making. He was willing to give up his soul and become a type of demon himself so that he could be the first and best of all wand-makers. Therefore he couldn't have had any ancestors with wands.

Of course, this wasn't common knowledge. Only Dumbledore, his brother Aberforth, and a few high-ranking people in the Ministry knew it. He saw the diary Ollivander had given her through Hermione's eyes and immediately recognised the handwriting. It was the wand-maker's own hand. He had lied to Hermione and slipped her a diary that contained exactly what the girl had been looking for – information on the Veil. Ollivander had never been invited to become an Unspeakable. But Dumbledore himself had, and he had told Ollivander about it, years ago.

Albus Dumbledore tried never to judge people before he knew all the facts, but this left no other conclusion: Ollivander, a friend whom he trusted as much as his own brother, had betrayed him. He thought what others would say—demons can't be trusted—but Albus knew that his anger was at Ollivander's actions not at what he was.

"Sir?" Hermione asked timidly. "What is wrong with –"

He whirled around and walked off to the far end of the room. An oval mirror with a golden frame hung on the wall there. When he touched it with his wand, it darkened as if someone had thrown a bottle of ink at it.

"Harry Potter," he said gravely. Ron and Hermione came closer, anxious to see their friend.

"I'm really sorry," Hermione said with a shaky voice, but he didn't listen.

The inky image in the mirror rippled and changed and finally showed them a part of the Forbidden Forest. The moon made patches of a swamp glisten like black oil. In the very middle loomed a tall, completely black rectangle, looking as if someone had cut a hole into the night. Albus' eyes widened as he received the second harsh blow this night dealt him.

Albus at once had recognised that the black object was a door conjured by his brother, Aberforth. It was his brother's special talent, the ability to open up connections taking the form of a door, between any two places. Its effect was like that of a Portkey but without the hook in the stomach sensation. The fact that he was seeing his brother's magic meant that Harry was currently travelling through one of these doors together with his brother.

"Ollivander and Aberforth," he said, and his voice made the portraits cringe in their frames.

He tipped the mirror again. The wand trembled slightly in his fingers. "Aberforth Dumbledore," he ordered, feeling a strangling coldness rising inside him.

This time the mirror glowed blue, showing them the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore frowned. The magic mirror indicated that Aberforth had brought Harry to the Department of Mysteries. This was exactly where Harry probably wanted to go: to the Veil. But why did Aberforth help him?

Neither his brother nor the ancient wand-maker was very forthcoming about their private lives; it never occurred to Albus that Aberforth and Ollivander had a working relationship. Obviously those two had been plotting against him for some time. But were they on Lord Voldemort's side?

"Ollivander?" Ron asked in a mystified voice. "Aberforth? Aberforth Dumbledore? What's going on here?"

"I don't know," said Dumbledore. "I wish I knew, but we don't have time to speculate. I believe that it is vitally important that we stop them, whatever they are doing," he concluded, glancing at the two confused youths. "It will probably be dangerous, but I need your assistance. I need you to convince Harry not to trust them, while I take care of them."

"Ollivander and your brother?" Ron asked, still grappling with the notion.

"What Ollivander's diary told you about the Veil was not the truth, Miss Granger," the headmaster went on, ignoring him. "Beyond the Veil does not lie eternal damnation."

He picked up a cup from his desk, tapping it with his wand. "Portus!"

They touched the cup and were ripped out of the reality of the office and in to a wild whirl of movement that finally dropped them in the Ministry of Magic.

Once Harry agreed to Aberforth's offer, a door appeared in the night out of thin air. It hovered some inches above the ground, perfectly solid and yet somehow unreal. It was the same kind of door that Aberforth had pushed him through a few days ago to rescue him from Voldemort's attack on Privet Drive.

"This'll lead us to the Ministry?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Open it," ordered Dumbledore's brother. Harry reached up to the brass handle and the door swung open without a sound. But behind it wasn't the night swamp, but a wide dimly lit room. Stale air brushed against Harry's face. It was, he realised with a shiver, the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries. Like a thin shadow, the archway on its dais could be seen.

Aberforth walked past him and stepped through the door as if it were nothing but a simple door. Harry glanced over his shoulder at the empty swamp. There was nothing there. Taking a deep breath, he followed the old wizard. For a moment he felt like a rubber band being extended and then snapping back as he arrived in the Death Chamber.

The door fell shut behind him with a dull thud and vanished. He was standing on the topmost tier of the gloomy rectangular room. The air was suddenly dusty and dry, and cold enough to make him shiver. It was very silent.

Aberforth walked in long strides past the many rows of benches, down into the pit where the dais stood. His tattered robes swished behind him like the fluttering Veil itself.

As Harry followed him down, he couldn't quite believe that this was really the same room where they had fought Death Eaters. He couldn't imagine the bolts and flashes of curses flying through the air, or Sirius' sharp laughter as he fought his mad cousin. But as he looked at the ancient arch that seemed to grow taller with each step he came closer to it, he felt entranced once more.

He had already put one foot on the dais, when Aberforth grabbed his shoulder and leaned down, hissing into his ear.

"You want to go through it, boy, don't you? It's calling out to you, the treacherous gate. You're bewitched by death!"

Harry took a deep breath and looked away. The hand on his shoulder fell away.

"So what will we do now?" he asked, but his voice was only a scared whisper. He asked once more, louder this time.

Aberforth reached into his cloak and retrieved a small leather satchel. He put it onto the dais and opened it. Inside were a number of milk and ivory coloured candles, strongly smelling incense, something that looked like a primitive drum and a knife. The handle of the knife was a yellowish white, it seemed to be carved out of bone. The blade though was smooth and gleaming like black glass.

"These days," Aberforth explained as he set up the candles in a circle around the stone dais, "wizards know of only two ways for the soul to leave the body: death and the kiss of a Dementor. But long ago, wizards practised a ritual that would permit the soul of a man to leave the body for a short time and travel to the land of the dead unharmed. People did this to seek guidance from their dead ancestors, or to placate the spirits of those who died in anger or despair."

He lit the candles and the incense. It smelled sweet and spicy, like burning hay. Harry blinked and swayed as the strange fragrance took away his balance. He felt light, as if he only needed to stand on his toes to fly away. Instead he sat down on the dais and shook his suddenly heavy head.

"Alright... so what do I have to do?"

The old wizard picked up a slab of chalk from within the satchel and started to draw a pattern of circles and strange signs around the stone dais. Harry thought that they might be runes, but he wasn't quite sure. Hermione would know... he rubbed his temples, blinking.

"What we're doing now will put you in a trance. When you're ready, I'll stab you with this knife. Your body will fall into a state next of kin to death, and your soul will leave your body. You will feel a pull towards the Veil, like a draft. And then you'll pass though it. Lie down."

Harry, who felt sluggish and tired, complied readily. His eyes fell shut as soon as the back of his head touched the hard stone dais in front of the arch.

"And then...?" he mumbled. "How will I... find Sirius?"

"Just think of him very hard. Never forget what you're there for. And never, no matter what happens, forget that you're not dead. You're one of the living. You cannot stay."

"I cannot stay..." Harry repeated in a voice that hardly sounded like his own. All sense of time, all power of will had left him. It felt like the exact moment before you fall asleep.

"I'll watch over you for the seven times that the sun sets and rises. At the end of the seven days, I will pull the knife. If you still remember that you're one of the living, you will return to your body and no harm will be done. If not – you'll be dead."

"Seven days..." Harry whispered, or perhaps he only thought it.

And then a sound like waves brushing a shore, like wind in the crowns of trees, like blood rushing in his veins, like a man chanting in a low whisper, surrounded him in a cocoon of noise.

"My brother has the definite advantage that his method of travel will take him directly to the Veil," Dumbledore explained as they hurried out of the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic where the Portkey had brought them.

Ron and Hermione almost had to run to follow the tall headmaster. As they caught up with him in the lift that would take them down to the Department of Mysteries, Ron gasped: "What will he do to Harry?"

"I have no idea," the old wizard replied, with a distant look on his frowning face making Ron feel terribly helpless.

Dumbledore hesitated over the buttons for a moment, and then he pressed his wand and index finger against the number nine button and murmured "Descendo!"

Instead of taking them down with a lot of rattling and jangling, the lift instantly dropped down to level nine, where it landed softly on a cushion of air.

They ran down the corridor towards the plain black door and into the circular room with the many doors. Dumbledore didn't bother to look at them; instead he walked straight into the middle of the blue-lit room and raised his hands in a sweeping gesture.

"Una ex dodecim," he exclaimed and instantly, the twelve identical doors around them started to flicker and glow in strange patterns until suddenly only one remained glowing an electric blue.

"Advanced Arithmancy," Hermione whispered in awe, but Ron didn't listen to her: Dumbledore was already ahead of them and opening the glowing door.

With raised wands, they stormed into the Chamber of Death. If it came to a fight, they probably wouldn't be much help, Ron knew, but at least they had to be able to defend themselves.

Down in the pitch, the barman of the Hog's Head was standing next to Harry's prone form on the dais. Candles were burning all around them, and in one hand he held a black knife, as if to stab Harry.

The urge to shout a warning to Harry was strangled by the incense permeating throughout the room. The incense enforced a complete silence making it impossible for him to say anything. Ron looked at Dumbledore hoping that he could stop his brother, but Dumbledore seemed to be trapped by the thick silence as well. Mesmerised Ron stared at the barman, who briefly glanced up at them. Aberforth exhaled—it looked as though magic was released and the area within the inscribed circle shimmered. He no longer looked like the unkempt barman at the Hogshead.

With a swift motion, the knife plunged into Harry's chest, right into his heart.

As soon as the knife hit its aim, the ritual was done and the after-effects of his trance crashed down on Aberforth with full force. Sweat was running down his forehead, gathering in his brows and beard, drenching his leather robes, and making his shaking hands slide off the ivory handle of the knife. Every muscle in his body seemed to be slack and trembling. It was all he could do to continue standing.

Even if his life had depended on it – and perhaps it now did, because Albus was here sooner than expected – he could not have said a single coherent word. He could only watch.

Aberforth had seen the two youths recoil in shock as he stabbed Potter. The girl yelped and clamped a hand over her mouth. The redheaded boy went white as his favourite goat. But Albus was the worst. His own heart seemed to have been stabbed, he swayed, his tight self-control crumpled. Suddenly he was a very old man barely able to stand on his own feet.

Aberforth's thoughts were still slow and confused, but he was surprised to realise that he felt a little sorry for his brother. 'Don't torture him any longer,' he thought numbly.

As if on cue, a soft voice that barely carried through the room broke the silence.

"He isn't dead, Albus," the wand-maker said. He had been waiting in the shadows of the door that led from the Chamber of Death to the next room. Aberforth, whose hearing was exceptionally acute for someone who worked in a noisy bar, could barely hear the old man's soft steps as he circled the room, approaching the headmaster and his two students.

"I cannot believe you betrayed me," Dumbledore said in a hollow voice, as if no life were left in its owner. The last time Aberforth heard that dead voice was during his brother's recovery from the fight with Grindelwald.

Aberforth looked at Ollivander. The frail old man stopped, tilting his head slightly to the side, yet otherwise he remained completely expressionless. But his voice sounded less pedantic than usual when he spoke.

"Then do not believe it. Neither I, nor," he jerked his chin slightly towards Aberforth, "your brother have betrayed you."

Aberforth nodded in agreement, but he couldn't tell whether his brother believed them or not.

"There is no need to worry," Ollivander carefully went on, "about the boy. Either must die by the hand of the other, the prophecy says. And I assure you that we are not, in any way, associated with the Dark Lord."

Albus should know it would make absolutely no sense for them to change sides in this war, and now Aberforth could see that his brother seemed to realise this as well. Albus regained some of his composure before he answered in his steely toned voice. "What did you do to Harry, then?"

Aberforth took a deep breath. Albus didn't care for this branch of magic. He considered it mere superstition, less worthy than divination. This disagreement had been the beginning of a rift between the brothers that grew ever deeper with the years. Albus was an idol, a member of the Wizengamot, headmaster of Hogwarts, and pupil of the famous Nicholas Flamel. Although Aberforth considered himself a worthy student of these long-forgotten arts with Ollivander as his teacher, most people considered him merely a barman in a seedy Hogsmeade bar. Even Ollivander, although a respected wandmaker, could not convince Albus that this was a valid branch of legitimate magic.

Now, though, Albus would have to listen to what they had to say! Aberforth's throat was dry and hoarse and hurt as he spoke: "This is an ancient way to send a man's soul on a journey to the realms of the dead. It permits his soul to leave his body for seven days, as long as this knife isn't removed."

His brother's eyes flashed with anger behind his half-moon glasses. "You are risking Harry's life! What if he does not find his way back from behind the Veil? Are you even aware –"

"So are you! You're putting the boy's life in even graver danger by not preparing him for the war!"

Actually, Aberforth didn't care much for the boy, as he didn't know him. He cared about this war and he wanted their side to win it. He had never understood why Albus was so reluctant to do anything when it came to the boy. Ollivander, who knew his brother much better than Aberforth did, said that Albus cared too much for the boy. Aberforth couldn't quite understand why.

As a young man, Albus had been reckless. He lived the pleasurable life of someone who didn't have a single worry in his life – he was talented, rich, successful, and even good-looking. He had many friendships then, but they all remained superficial and meaningless. Albus was bored, a man without equals or real challenges.

The challenge had come in the form of Grindelwald, but it turned Albus into a different man. Aberforth could only guess what his brother had lived through those few days he spent as Grindelwald's captive, but it had taken years for his brother to recover. And suddenly he no longer cared for his easygoing lifestyle anymore. He became politically active in the wizarding world and a few decades later, he was fighting another, much harder war.

Albus Dumbledore had found his vocation in fighting for a better world, and he changed the nature of his friendships: he spent less time with those who sought him for connections or prestige, and more time with those whose company and loyalty he truly valued. But one thing hadn't changed: he was still alone. There had been no serious romance in his life for many decades and the Albus' only equal in power and knowledge was Lord Voldemort.

Then Aberforth understood. Albus loved Harry as if he were a son. Who else could ignore the troubles of the wizarding world for a fifteen-year-old lad but his father? But Albus needed to understand that this kind of love was dangerous.

Again Ollivander spoke: "You love him, Albus, and that is why you do not see the truth: love can save a man, but it cannot win wars. Like this, Harry Potter will never be able to defeat Voldemort. You are risking his life because you are unable to make decisions and what is worse: you are putting your feelings over the responsibility you have for the rest of the world."

"And what are you asking me to do?" Dumbledore replied sternly. "I will not fight by any means necessary or I would be no better than Voldemort."

"Yes, but by protecting Harry too much, you might be risking everyone else's life!" Aberforth called up from the pitch. "You should fight this war the best you can, but instead you let yourself be guided by your affection for the boy!"

Ollivander, unfazed, went on explaining, silencing them both effectively. "There is something I suspected ever since I first saw the boy," the wand-maker went on quietly. "It occurred to me again when the 'Priori Incantatem' effect happened, and I was finally convinced when you shared the contents of the prophecy with me last year. It's the reason why the Dark Lord still exists, and why he and Harry seem to be so strangely connected: when the curse rebounded on Voldemort, it did, in a way, kill him. He lost his soul and he should have died, had he still been human. But instead of being pulled behind the Veil his soul settled in the infant body of Harry Potter."

"That isn't possible." The bushy-haired girl seemed to have found her voice again. She sounded incredulous and also angry.

But Albus slowly shook his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. "It is, Miss Granger. Voldemort always had a gift for possession. And he and Harry share some interesting physical traits. The mind of an infant is still weak...," he gazed sharply at Ollivander. "This explains a lot, but it does not warrant such actions."

"Wait a moment," the redhead said to the girl. "Is he saying that Harry is You-Know-Who?"

"Voldemort's soul shares Harry's body," Ollivander said. "But we have reason to believe Harry's body may have more than his soul. From what you have told me so proudly about the boy, Albus, I gather that he is a Parselmouth, that he has a latent talent for Occlumency as well as Legilimency and that he does some amazingly quick thinking in dangerous situations. This is not what a soul does. Dormant within him lies not only Voldemort's soul, but his whole personality, his skills and his memories – everything that Tom Riddle once was. The Voldemort we know today is only a soulless copy."

Dumbledore stared down at Harry who lay on the stone dais like a sacrificial offering. Aberforth took his hands from the knife, showing that there was no blood coming from the wound. The candles flickered dangerously in the breeze that went past the archway, but Aberforth was grateful for the cooling air.

"Then what you have done is even more dangerous for it might awaken the Voldemort in Harry's body, now that Harry's soul is gone. Or is that what you have planned?" Albus asked suspiciously.

Had Albus tried to penetrate their minds, he would have known that he was very close to the truth. Aberforth supposed that he was still stunned by what he just saw to act in his usual way.

"You still don't see the crucial part," Ollivander said, his voice neutral as ever, "which is what happened to Voldemort's soul after it slipped into the boy's body. A grown man's mind could not possibly work with an infant's body and brain, they are not developed enough. And Voldemort was helpless and probably still weakened and confused. Unable to leave this body, he must have succumbed to Harry's mind, where he now lies dormant, unaware of who he is."

Dumbledore made a step towards Ollivander. "Go on," he urged.

"Tom Riddle was an unwanted child, his birth killed his mother and from then on he had to survive in a cold and hostile world. Harry though was loved from the start. He only had his mother for a single year, but a year of love can make a world of difference."

"And Lily sacrificed herself for him. Her love never left Harry. Despite all circumstances, he grew up with the innate knowledge, that somehow he was loved. Voldemort couldn't possess that love," the headmaster finished the thought for him, his lips graced by a small smile. But then he frowned once more, shaking his head slightly.

"But why did you send him behind the Veil? What could he possibly gain from that?"

Aberforth slowly curled his hand around the knife once more. Ollivander's unblinking silvery eyes were still locked on Dumbledore's.

"I don't know, Albus. Perhaps Harry will gain nothing from it. Perhaps he will learn something very important. But this isn't just about his journey anymore. The time has come to release the one who will put an end to this war. Tom Riddle's first life on this earth turned him into the Dark Lord. But a part of him, his soul, got a second chance. Harry has vanquished all that was the Dark Lord. Now let us look at what remains of the man who created the Dark Lord!"

For the first time in the last minutes, Ollivander had raised his voice slightly. Just as he finished, Albus whirled around, his wand raised in objection, a look of startled realisation on his face.

"Don't –"

But Aberforth was already holding the knife in his hands, black and white and without a single drop of blood on it. There was a precise hole in the boy's faded blue shirt, but beneath it, the skin appeared unmarred. For the blink of an eye, he remained dead as before.

Then a faint shiver of life went through him.


	25. In Essence Divided

**Warning: **This chapter again depicts a double murder, but it is a canonical one so you probably won't be very shocked...

**Chapter 25 – In Essence Divided **

The first thing Tom became aware of was the cold floor under his body and a slight headache. His tongue was dry and felt cottony. Then he noticed the soft cold thing under his fingers and he remembered where he was and why. Suddenly alert, Tom sat up and opened his eyes.

The drawing room was dimly lit and chilly. The weak light coming from the tall windows was grey; rain pelted against the glass. A look at the cold fireplace confirmed that at least a day had gone by since he had killed Alphard and completed the soul splitting.

Tom looked at the body. His hands had still been curled around Alphard's neck when he woke and he could see dark bruises on the pale skin. It disgusted him. He turned away and got up.

The stack of cards and the last will still sat untouched on the table. Tom picked up his travelling cloak from one of the chairs, ignoring the stiff muscles in his arms and neck. He cast a last glance around the gloomy room. Slowly, he felt joy and pride rise in his chest.

He didn't feel any different now than the night before, but he knew that everything had changed. He was now immortal, invulnerable. He would never be the body lying on the floor.

"Listen to this wizard!" Abraxas Malfoy laughed, raising his glass to the man he knew as Lord Voldemort. "He's got the right things to say about those Mudbloods!"

Everyone raised their glasses and drank. Since his return to Britain, Tom had spent most of his time establishing relations to influential purebloods who agreed with his agenda. He had always been good at charming and impressing people. At first he had expected his new looks to be a hindrance, but in most cases it wasn't. It always amused Tom how determinedly these wizards tried to be blasé about his unusual appearance. No one ever asked questions or doubted that he was anything but a pureblood wizard of great power. Some already were calling him the Dark Lord.

Next to Abraxas sat his son, Lucius, smiling thinly at his father's enthusiasm. But the spark in his eyes told Tom that while his father would talk at length about how those Mudbloods and Muggle lovers had to be purged from the wizard society, Lucius would actually do something. Yes, this young wizard was definitely a candidate to be a Death Eater.

To his left sat Hecate Black, a rich and recently widowed witch who didn't hide her admiration for his cause – and his person - in the least. She was accompanied by her sister and a wizard with short grey hair and severe features whose name was Nott.

Abraxas Malfoy launched into another tirade about the Minister of Magic. Hecate Black bent forward.

"What is your opinion of the Ministry?" she asked Tom. He smiled, setting down the glass.

"Well, if you're so interested, Mrs Black, my opinion is that the Ministry of Magic has served our society well for many years – but maybe it is time for a - ," he smiled, "a new way of doing things."

As he said this, Tom looked up and caught Lucius Malfoy's eyes. There it was again, that willingness to go further than mere words.

It was then that it happened the first time, or maybe it was only the first time that Tom noticed it. He wanted to turn back to Hecate Black to say more about this topic, but he didn't. Instead he continued to look at Malfoy for at least another five seconds before his body obeyed his command.

The feeling of displacement in his own body didn't leave him that evening and haunted him all through a sleepless night.

It began as tiny motions that his body wouldn't perform even though he willed it to do so. One day he picked a different robe from the one he had wanted to pick. No matter how hard he tried to put it back into the wardrobe, his body continued dressing and walking out of the room as if it were a puppet pulled by somebody else's strings.

There followed a dozen days in which nothing like this happened and he was able to forget or at least ignore it, until it happened again.

Two years after the soul splitting he couldn't deny it anymore. Something was wrong with him. He was losing control over his own body. He decided to look into an ancient text that had guided him through many of his transformations, Dark Magic For the Gifted. But nothing happened. He continued to live and act as if he had never made that decision. His attempts to get back into control grew more and more frantic until he had no choice but to admit it: he wasn't in control anymore and someone else had been living his life for some time. But this other person was so much like him that Tom could anticipate every word and every choice of this other person. They were like two people singing the same song only with the slightest of dissonance. It could be none other than the copy of himself he had constructed.

And while Lord Voldemort rose to power, while his name became feared everywhere in Britain, while every dream of Tom Riddle was fulfilled, Tom himself was caught inside the monster he had created, unable to free himself.

If he listened very hard, he could now hear the whisper of thoughts that weren't his; he could feel the other's mind coiling around his own mind like a twin snake choking him slowly.

He had split his essence into two identical copies, one soulless and immortal and one with a soul, human and mortal. He had deliberately made the soul weaker than the soulless copy, to keep the soul from interfering with him. What he hadn't anticipated was that he would end up with the soul and not be the soulless copy.

He tried every known kind of magic that he could access without a voice to speak or a body to wield a wand. He tried to concentrate hard enough to overwhelm the other. He waited for a moment of weakness in the other, but no matter how distracted or exhausted the other was, Tom couldn't push through. He was caught in a prison of his own making.

Tom wasn't even sure if the other knew he was there. Perhaps the other Tom – whom he called Voldemort in order to distance himself from him – didn't even notice the feeble soul and its struggle to get back into control. No matter how hard he tried to break into the Voldemort's mind, Tom couldn't breach the Occlumency of his copy. Only now and then he heard a murmur of thought and could guess at the other's feelings and motives. It was a bit like listening to a very faint recording of his own voice saying things he had never said. He could never bear to listen very long.

As the years went by, he grew weaker, his own thoughts became erratic and slow, and his mind seemed to decay in its captivity. The only thing that he could do was maintain a bitter loathing for his own creation, Lord Voldemort, and an all-pervading fear began to poison his every thought. He knew that his attempt to escape death had failed horribly. He had incapacitated himself and the state he was living in now was less than a shadow of life.

As if he wasn't feeling despondent enough, there was more disquieting news from one of his younger Death Eaters who had overheard Dumbledore interviewing a witch about a Divination position at Hogwarts. During that interview she went into a trance and started prophesying. She said that the one who would defeat the Dark Lord would be born at the end of the seventh month to parents who had thrice defied him.

Immediately Tom panicked. He didn't want to die and now the thought that he might die as early as August awakened his mind although not his will. And he didn't trust Lord Voldemort to do the right thing and eliminate this threat quickly. What if his copy failed? What if Voldemort did something that would not kill _him_, but risk the life of his soul?

"Avada Kedavra!"

The house fell suddenly silent after the flash of green light. But it was only a momentary illusion of calm. Before the Dark Lord, the young wizard, draped over the lowest steps of the staircase like a crumpled rug, lay dead. In the dim reflection of the mirror at the end of the hall, Lord Voldemort could see Pettigrew stirring behind him. The short man looked like a paper ghost with his round ashen face, Tom thought.

"Remove this," Voldemort ordered, pointing his wand at the body of James Potter.

Potter had fought bravely and skilfully, and with the wild desperation of a man defending the lives of his family. They're like animals when their families are threatened, like lions defending their cubs, Tom thought as Voldemort waited impatiently for Pettigrew to compose himself.

Pettigrew cowered in the shadows, frozen by fear. Perhaps the past hours had broken the whimpering parody of a man and he would be of no more use to the Dark Lord. Kill him, Tom thought. Don't waste your time with that pathetic wreck.

But Voldemort didn't kill Pettigrew. Instead he stepped over Potter's body and climbed the stairs. They creaked slightly and even Tom, in his powerless state, could feel the protective magic in the air, touching Voldemort's body like invisible cobwebs of power. Tom, grateful that Voldemort was acting at last, hoped Voldemort wouldn't make any mistakes. Like cobwebs the charms clung to him, a weightless trap – did Voldemort feel it, too, or was he too excited, to caught up in his triumph over Potter?

At the top of the stairs Voldemort turned right. Every door sprung open as he passed, revealing dark and empty rooms. And then the final door opened and he entered the room.

There she was, barely more than a girl, pretty, with a shock of dark red hair and eyes of startling green. She stood, unarmed, in front of a cot. Tom could see a glimpse of the baby, a round cheek and a tuft of black hair on the white pillow.

"Give me the child," Voldemort demanded coldly.

She was trembling, her face white from fear, but her eyes were calm and determined. Something about that pale face was familiar. She looked not unlike the image of his mother that he had dreamt up as a child, a pale and beautiful woman in the face of death.

"Never," she said. It was almost a shout in the eerily silent room. "Not Harry. You've got to kill me first!"

Lord Voldemort sneered, and Tom wondered why. Was he amused by her futile resistance? Or had he also noticed her resemblance to their dreamed up mother and did he appreciate the irony, that she, too, would die for her child?

Voldemort raised his wand, but he didn't say the curse. He was thinking. Tom could almost hear it: _my mother would have known to choose her own life over mine, had she had a choice at all,_ Voldemort reasoned. _Wouldn't it be amusing to give her that choice? … to see her twist in agony… me or my child? …she'll choose her own life, as she must… she'll watch me kill the boy, but she will live, knowing that…_

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort demanded again. "Stand aside and give me the child. You needn't die…".

Tom was surprised that Voldemort would actually do this. Of course it was a delicious way to torture her, but it was also a waste of time in a serious and important situation.

To Tom's surprise, the witch didn't waver in the slightest. Lord Voldemort raised his wand pointing it at her child. "Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead –" she pleaded suddenly.

Tom could feel it, Voldemort was losing his patience with her. "Alright, you wanted it like this," he hissed. And Tom thought he saw something in her eyes, a gleam of hope, and he felt the spider's web of magic tighten around them, but Voldemort didn't hesitate a second.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The curse had been aimed past her at the child in the cot, but she threw herself in front of it. Green light ignited the room like a bolt of lightning and the next moment her body lay on the floor.

Lord Voldemort moved closer, studying the baby. It was just an infant, weak and defenceless. This was supposed to be the one with the power to vanquish him? He laughed.

But Tom couldn't feel amused, not when he knew that he was just as weak and defenceless as the child in its cot. He, too, couldn't do anything but watch as the events around him unfolded. Bitter hatred for that other part of himself engulfed him.

"Avada Kedavra!" Lord Voldemort called once more and the room was bathed in green light. Tom could feel the rush of magic leave the wand, the sudden surge of power – but then something went wrong. The magic reflected and he felt ice-cold, it hit him like a wall of pain beyond anything he had ever felt. It was only comparable to the sense of being ripped apart that he had felt when he severed his soul from the rest of himself, but that much worse. He could feel his body burning away in a matter of seconds and he felt the presence of the other being ripped away from him and then he was blinded by pain, nothing but pain.

The next thing he felt was a soft warmth, like a soothing blanket being wrapped around himself. He felt a powerful emotion, something that consisted in equal parts of sad longing and joy. He couldn't name it, because it took away all the words from his mind. It washed away his consciousness layer by layer until nothing was left of him but a core of raw feelings.

Suddenly he remembered how tired and weary he was, how much he longed to sleep and forget.

Thick sheets of longing and gentle sadness curled themselves around him, choked him gently until he lost everything, his memories, his name and finally even the unbearable pain.


	26. The Maze

**Chapter 26 - The Maze**

When Harry woke up again, he thought that something must have gone wrong with the ritual because nothing at all seemed to have happened. He still felt the slight vertigo and disorientation from the incense, and he was still dizzy, but he didn't feel dead in the least.

But he had a strong sensation that something was wrong. Harry felt as if he had forgotten a very important thing, but he couldn't remember what it was. It was an uncomfortable feeling like an indistinct hunger or thirst, but not for food or for water.

And then something else occurred to him. The floor he was lying on was not the stone of the dais anymore.

Harry opened his eyes and saw a white ceiling. He was definitely not in the Department of Mysteries anymore. He straightened his glasses and turned his head to the side where he saw a few pictures on a white wall. Beneath a mantelpiece cluttered with all sorts of hideous little porcelain figures was a boarded-up fireplace with a fake coal fire plugged in front of it. Harry's eyes widened in recognition and he quickly sat up.

Harry couldn't explain this, but somehow he had ended up in the Dursley's living room. But hadn't Death Eaters and even Voldemort himself broken into the house on Number 4, Privet Drive a few days ago? Why would anyone bring him here and leave him alone? Then he had another idea: what if he was already behind the Veil? He had no idea what the place beyond the Veil was supposed to be like. It was supposed to be hell and the Dursley's living room certainly wasn't one of Harry's favourite places.

He sat there a long time, unsure what he should do. Usually Harry didn't hesitate a lot but he seemed unable to make a decision. He felt insecure. What if he did something wrong? The nagging feeling that wasn't quite hunger nor thirst grew stronger. He felt like he was missing an important part of himself. The loneliness and fear and vulnerability, grew in intensity all together at once. Harry shivered.

But finally he made up his mind and got to his feet. It was then that he first discovered the wound in his chest. A ghostly knife was sticking out of his chest. It was translucent and grey and when he touched it gingerly his hands went through it and it felt like frosty air. It was the knife Aberforth had used to stab him, but it didn't bleed or hurt.

Shrugging, he went to the door and opened it. But to his surprise, the door didn't go into the Dursley's hall, but into what looked like the narrow underground passage that led from the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack. Roots were sticking out of the walls.

"Alright," Harry said glumly to himself. "This is definitely not the real world." His voice sounded strangely lost in the passage. The fear and longing in his chest grew even stronger. Harry wanted, no he needed to be with people, to talk to someone, to be reassured in his plans.

He stepped into the passage, and as soon as his hand left the Dursley's door, it fell shut, leaving him in the dark. Feeling for the wall with his hands, he stumbled forward. The narrow corridor was warmer than he remembered from 3rd year and smelled of earth and animals. He thought he heard the sound of steps, and hushed laughter from far away and his heart longed to be with those noises.

After a long time of stumbling and crawling in the dark, the passage came to an end, but it wasn't a trapdoor that led out of it but another door with a handle. Harry opened it and was blinded by the sudden brightness. The room he stepped into was the small bedroom at Godric's Hollow that Lupin had shown him, the room where Voldemort had killed his mother.

Harry looked around with some apprehension. The last time he had been here he had felt very uncomfortable and there had been a painful sensation in his scar. But now he felt nothing. The room looked only bright and peaceful.

Harry turned around and looked at the door that had quietly fell shut behind him. He wondered briefly whether it lead back to the tunnel but something told him to expect that behind it would be another room that shouldn't be there. 'This place makes no sense,' he thought. 'And I wonder why there aren't any people around here.'

But there was any chance at finding Sirius he would have to go on. As he put his hand onto the handle of the door, he suddenly felt a stinging pain going from his chest down to his navel and a cold shiver ran down his spine, making him gasp in surprise. The pain subsided after a second and when he looked down at himself, the ghostly knife was gone, leaving only the wound that didn't bleed. Harry closed his eyes for a second. This was all too much. He didn't know what he was doing or what might happen to him and he felt so very lost. He felt, more than ever, the need not to be alone and he reached for the door.

The next door led him to the tiny cupboard under the stair at the Dursley's where he had spent most of his childhood. The cupboard under the stairs was followed by the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts, a room above the Leaky Cauldron where he had once slept before his third year, one of the carriages that usually brought students from the Hogwarts Express to the school (but it was empty when Harry walked through it) and the Men's Room at the Three Broomsticks.

Room after room followed. Some weren't even real rooms, but wardrobes or broom sheds and once even the inside of Mr Dursley's car. They had nothing in common except that Harry had seen them all before. Sometimes Harry heard distant noises but he never saw any people. Slowly he became less attentive and excited. He just walked through the rooms, looking for the next door, growing more and more tired until he was almost sleep-walking through this mysterious cabinet of rooms.

He had been walking for what seemed like hours (but in some rooms it was night while it was daytime in others) when he climbed through the Slytherin portrait hole and found himself suddenly in the maze that had been the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

The dark green hedges loomed high around him and he heard the distant cheer of a crowd. Harry felt a thrill of fear and he searched for his wand, but he couldn't find it. Had he lost it?

The portrait hole behind him was gone. Slowly Harry walked straight ahead until he came to a corner. A blast-ended skrewt lay crumpled in the grass; Harry was grateful that it appeared lifeless. At last he saw the first person since he had woken up.

It was Cedric, standing on the other side of the skrewt. His face was pale and damp from sweat, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. Harry was surprised to notice that Cedric didn't seem as tall as he remembered him. Was Cedric a ghost, or only a figment of his imagination?

"Cedric?" Harry called tentatively, for Cedric didn't seem to have noticed him.

Cedric looked up and squinted at him then his face suddenly broke into an exhausted smile. But his smile fell as quickly as it had come as he limped closer to Harry.

"I hoped you had gotten away somehow," he sighed, avoiding Harry's eyes.

Harry knew immediately what Cedric meant. His chest became painfully tight when he realised that now he would have to tell Cedric that he was the reason why Cedric had been killed.

"I… have," Harry said, but it was barely more than a hoarse whisper. "I did escape from the graveyard that day."

Cedric looked up, a gleam of hope in his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as his smile. "But you're dead now. You're here… wherever here is. Well, I guess it's suppose to be the afterlife but it's a pretty strange place."

And then it hit Harry. Cedric was here! Cedric was beyond the Veil! But that couldn't be true, because Cedric had died in the graveyard. He wasn't supposed to be here at all. Cedric seemed to notice the shock on Harry's face, because he said: "Er… you did know that you were dead, didn't you? I'm sorry if you didn't, I guess I should have said it a little more… you know, politely."

Harry shook his head, trying to sort out his confused thoughts. "No, I did know, I mean I know I'm not dead. I'm here because… it's rather complicated. You see, I'm here because I need to find someone who's dead… but you're not supposed to be here at all, because you didn't go through the Veil!"

Cedric raised his eyebrows. "Sounds rather complicated to me, too. Perhaps we should go somewhere a little bit nicer, though. For starters, I'd like to know what exactly happened when we touched the cup…"

And Cedric laid a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently led him past the dead skrewt and around another corner and suddenly Harry saw one of the entrances to the maze. They went through it and found themselves in a nice little kitchen. It looked a bit like Mrs Weasley's kitchen, but it was tidier and not quite as crammed full with things. Warm afternoon light fell through square windows. A small oval picture on one wall showed the portrait of a snoring man who bore a certain resemblance to Cedric's father. It smelled of tea and caramel bonbons. A bit of the longing and loneliness in Harry was soothed by it and he felt safe at once.

"My Granny's house," Cedric said and took two glasses out of a drawer and filled them with pumpkin juice from a brown mug.

He and Harry settled down on the small table in the cosy kitchen and drank their juice. It tasted delicious and not in the least bit unreal. It filled Harry with warmth and strength like a pepper-up potion.

And then Harry started to tell Cedric everything. Cedric had died because of Harry's connection with Voldemort and he felt that he owed him the truth about everything. He told him about Moody and Crouch Jr., about Voldemort, Wormtail (and when he got to Wormtail, he also had to tell Cedric about the other Marauders and Sirius, who wasn't really a murderer) and the graveyard and about the Priori Incantatem effect that had saved his life. Cedric could not remember coming out of Voldemort's wand as a ghost, and so they agreed that these ghosts had not been real people but only echoes of the spells that had been performed with Voldemort's wand. Then he told Cedric about Grimmauld Place and the Order of the Phoenix, about Umbridge and the DA and finally he even confessed about dating Cho.

"But you see," he said nervously, "she really just wanted to talk about you. I think she, um, loved you a lot."

Cedric smiled. "It's okay, Harry. It's not as if I expected her to never date anybody else if I died – well, I didn't expect to die, but you know what I mean. It's totally okay for her to go on with her life," he said and sounded very honest about it.

Harry couldn't bring himself to tell Cedric that Cho hadn't managed to 'go on with her life' during their fifth year. And so he went on about his dreams of the mysterious door and the failed rescue mission to the Department of Mysteries.

It was the first time that Harry told anybody about the moment when Sirius' fell through the Veil. He still felt a sharp guilt over his death and that his grief would never end but he also felt a little relieved. Everything else he had to say wouldn't be quite as hard.

Finally he told Cedric about the prophecy and what Hermione had said about the place beyond the Veil and how he had managed to get through the Veil without dying.

"That's pretty… impressive," Cedric said carefully. "It probably sucks for you though - I mean if I knew I had to defeat You-Know-Who, wow, I wouldn't know what I would do. I'd probably try to run away and hide somewhere."

Harry stared unhappily at his empty glass and the cracks in the white table. "That's pretty much what I've been doing. Running away and hiding, I mean. I've been hidden away at the Dursleys' all my life – they're my Aunt and Uncle – and lately I've had to hide in Hogwarts under Dumbledore's protection. I need a guard wherever I go."

Harry felt unusually hopeless. Normally he didn't worry too much about Voldemort. He had so many other problems and every time he'd had to face Voldemort things had just happened and somehow he had come out alive. He just knew what to do in such situations, he couldn't quite explain how or why. But now this ability seemed to have left him.

Cedric looked uncomfortable when Harry said this. He probably didn't like hearing that the only hope of the wizarding world wasn't confident about defeating Voldemort. "You shouldn't lose any time finding your godfather," he suggested.

"But how? I've been wandering around for hours and you were the first person I met. How could I find Sirius when I don't even know what's going to be behind the next door?"

Cedric frowned and brushed a strand of hair out of his face. "I've been here for a while now and I've met some people who have been here longer than I. I've heard that this place isn't the final place – it's only like the first part of a long journey, but no one knows where it goes. They say that somewhere there's a river you have to cross – but if your godfather died only recently he's probably still here. Only the people who manage to let go of their lives can cross the river."

He looked bemused for a second. Then he went on.

"You said that your friend Hermione Granger had read that this place would be like Hell – but it's not. I've been to a lot of nice places here and I've met my Granny who's not a bad person at all. So your godfather could be anywhere. But maybe there are some places that mean more to him than others?"

Harry nodded, still not quite convinced.

"You'll find him in some place where he has been in his life. If you think very hard of the place you want to go, the next door is likely to bring you there. If you're feeling bad, the next place is going to be a bad place. If there are two doors in a room, always choose the one that looks to you as if it might lead you to the place you want to go. This place isn't real, Harry. It's created through our memories and feelings, I think. You can influence it."

Harry looked at his glass again. "Thanks. I would never have figured that out on my own."

Cedric smiled. "You should go now. There's nothing else to do for you here."

"And you?" Harry asked. Cedric shrugged.

"I don't know. I feel a lot better now that I know why I died and that everyone else is okay – my parents, Cho, you. If you get back, could you tell them that I'm okay and I love them? If you could just write them a short letter –"

"Of course!" Harry said. "I'll explain everything."

"Thanks. Now that I know this… maybe I'll try to find that river and cross it. I'm pretty curious what's next."

Silence fell over the kitchen and Harry knew that it was time to go on with his search. Cedric still smiled at him. It reminded him of Dumbledore, very calm, almost serene. It gave him peace and confidence and stilled some of the strange hunger he felt.

Harry got up and after a second, he reached out awkwardly and they shook hands. "I'll tell them," Harry promised. "As soon as I return."

Cedric nodded and then gestured towards the door. Harry looked at it very hard and put his hand on the door-handle. 'Think of Sirius,' he thought. 'Think of the things he liked…'

But there weren't very many things, Harry discovered as he thought about it, which he knew Sirius liked. Sirius liked him and Remus and Tonks, but they were all still alive. Then there were James and Lily, but Harry was sure that his parents weren't here anymore. But what else was there that Sirius might like? Harry didn't know. There were so many things he didn't know about Sirius.

These things were on his mind as he pressed down the handle and walked through the door. The first place he came to was the Shrieking Shack, where he had first met Sirius. But the room with its broken furniture and boarded windows was empty. The next door he stumbled through lead into the cave near Hogsmeade where Sirius had once stayed with Buckbeak. It was also empty. Harry walked through the mouth of the cave, but it didn't lead him outside. Instead he unexpectedly walked into an umbrella stand in a gloomy hallway. There was barely any light and what little there was reflected eerily on the dusty glass of old gas-lamps and a very old chandelier. The umbrella stand toppled and rolled across the floor; with a bang it hit the opposite wall.

Without thinking Harry looked up at the portrait that would have surely started yelling, for he had recognised the place as Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. But nothing happened. Where Mrs Black's portrait had once hung was now an empty space. Otherwise the place looked as Harry remembered it – derelict and depressing.

He sighed. This was the place where he had least wanted to go. If Sirius was here, he had to be in a bad state. Only Azkaban could have been worse.

…

When Harry woke up again, he thought that something must have gone wrong with the ritual, because nothing at all seemed to have happened. He still felt the slight vertigo and disorientation from the incense, and he was still incredibly tired, but he didn't feel dead in the slightest. In fact he felt more alive than he had in a long time.

He could also still feel the cold stone beneath his back and the slight fluttering breeze from the Veil. And he heard voices, more than one and sounding rather excited. Someone was grasping his arm with warm fingers and someone else said his name in an anxious tone – he smiled when he recognised Ron's voice.

'That's strange', he thought dizzily. 'It felt as if I really smiled. But I can't control my body…'

And then he suddenly bolted upright. Ron in the Ministry? He opened his eyes and there they were: Ron and Hermione, standing close by with frightened but relieved expressions. It was Hermione who had touched his arm. Harry was glad to see them and even relieved that the ritual hadn't worked.

"Harry, mate," Ron said in a shaky voice. "We thought you were dead!"

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked. But something wasn't right. When he sat up, they moved back a bit, almost as if they were frightened. Just a step behind them stood Professor Dumbledore, and to Harry's right, Aberforth Dumbledore stood with the knife in his hand.

There was a strange expression on Professor Dumbledore's usually kind face, one that Harry had seen there before but he remember when: When had Dumbledore looked at him like that with doubt and wariness, even mistrust? Suddenly Harry felt cold as distant memories came back to him, of a younger Dumbledore with auburn hair and the same mistrustful look in his eyes as he looked at Harry... suddenly Harry was angry at Dumbledore, a lot angrier than he had been after Sirius fell through the Veil. Then he remembered Dumbledore fighting Voldemort in...

Voldemort. _His skin is white as bones in the mirror. His new laughter sounds strange, high-pitched and alien…_

_A cold high laughter. His mother crying, pleading for his life. Green light, terrible pain _– he clutched his forehead at the memory, but the pain was only in his memory, there was no pain now...

Harry stared at his hands and felt like he was going mad. He distinctly remembered his fingers being longer, his skin being paler – but these hands that he was looking at had been his hands all his life.

He looked up at Dumbledore once more and saw that the mistrust had grown worse, that the old headmaster now looked almost... dangerous. Their eyes locked and everything within Harry screamed '_danger _!' He immediately concentrated, raised his mental shields with customary ease, felt Dumbledore's Legilimency being deflected and saw the disbelief in the old man's eyes.

"No," Harry whispered, hugging himself. "No… I can't… I didn't…"

Suddenly his mind was crammed full with memories and knowledge he couldn't place. Everything made infinitely more and less sense. He could read the runes drawn with chalk on the floor. He could name all the herbs in the incense and where they grew and when you had to pick them and what their properties were. He knew that the knife in Aberforth's hand was made of ivory and obsidian, not black glass.

"Make it stop," he pleaded.

His eyes suddenly fell on Ron and Hermione. He blinked. They were just Ron and Hermione, his friends.

"I think something's wrong with me," Harry said weakly and was startled by his own voice. For a second he had expected a different voice, lower and with another accent.

Dumbledore rounded the dais, walking in front of his friends as if to protect them from Harry. His face was stern and he looked very much in control.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"The Department of Mysteries," Harry said, thinking that this was a rather strange question. And then he remembered more…

…_he'd been here before, secretly, had studied the fascinating instruments in the time room, the motion of planets, the wonders of thought and memory, the room full of shelves with orbs you couldn't touch or you'd go mad, rooms full of artefacts from everywhere in the world, magical devices – how he'd longed to steal them all_...

"Do you remember what happened?" Dumbledore asked.

"I was going to find Sirius," Harry replied and suddenly he felt the pang of grief again at the thought of his godfather, rage at the injustice of it all. He thought of Sirius, falling gracefully through the Veil, a look of surprise on his face... his face... another memory mixed with the images of Sirius and suddenly he had a name for this remarkably similar face. Alphard. But there was no boy named Alphard going to school with Harry – for a moment he felt the old relief at having left school behind, at being free – and Alphard was a grown-up and so was he…

_He'd killed this man. _

Harry's face twisted. "Something's wrong," he choked.

_... he had finally finished it all, finally he was immortal but it hadn't worked properly, he was caught in a body he couldn't control... _

Dumbledore tried to look him straight in the eyes. "What is your name?"

_... then there was the prophecy and the Secret Keeper and the parents of the child… _

Harry wanted to open his mouth and answer but he only managed a strangled groan.

"What is your name?" Dumbledore repeated.

Harry remembered Wormtail, cowering on the floor of a dark room and sobbing, Wormtail who had betrayed his parents to Lord Voldemort. But something wasn't right, because Wormtail looked so much younger and this wasn't the Shrieking Shack, this was Godric's Hollow…

_... and he stepped over the man's body on the stairs... _

... it wasn't his Dad who conjured the Patronus and defeated the dementors, it was him, Harry...

_... she was sobbing over the baby, a pretty, foolish witch and she asked him to spare the boy's life, to take her instead_...

... when he saw his parents in the Mirror of Erised he wanted to sit there and look at them all night. They were smiling and waving and he knew that they loved him...

He screamed, he didn't know why, but he screamed and then he broke down, wanting nothing so much as to crawl out of his body which wasn't his own and to forget, to cease to exist.

Dumbledore straightened and for a moment, he remained unable to hide the mixture of dread and pity he felt at the sight of Harry – who obviously wasn't Harry at all – crumbling on the ground and losing his mind. A decision had to be made and quickly.

He turned to Ollivander. "So it is indeed Voldemort's soul that occupies his body now?" he asked the wand-maker for confirmation. Ollivander inclined his head in a wordless nod.

Dumbledore glanced at the boy on the ground. This was a most uncharacteristic reaction for Voldemort, to show such vulnerability. And for the first few moments after waking up, he had behaved just like Harry…

"Can Harry be brought back, now that the knife has been pulled?" he asked, turning to Aberforth.

"The boy's soul would have returned when I pulled the knife, if his body had not been inhabited by a second soul. As it was, pulling the knife only wakened up Voldemort's soul," Aberforth explained impassively. "To get Potter back, you'd have to get Voldemort out of him and then stab him again. If you pulled the knife after doing that, Potter would return."

Dumbledore was angry with both of them, for risking such things only to awaken a part of Voldemort that promised to be less than helpful, but there was no time for this. Right now, he had to minimize the damage.

"Open a portal to my office," he told Aberforth quietly. Then Dumbledore looked at his two other students. Ron and Hermione both looked sick with worry and fear.

"I promise to do my best to save Harry," he said, trying to be confident for their sake. It seemed to work for them and he wished he could say the same for himself. "Right now, you cannot help and I must ask you to try and stay calm – and not to talk to anyone about this, not even to your parents or members of the Order."

They nodded. Aberforth frowned and a massive oak door appeared in front of them, hovering eerily in the quiet room. He opened it and they could see the warm light of the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore bent down and seized Harry's shoulder. It seemed ridiculous to think of him as Voldemort but he had to try and not be deceived by the familiar face. Even if this was only a broken part of Voldemort, he could still be dangerous.

They all went through the portal and it closed behind them, vanishing as if it had never been there. Ron and Hermione left reluctantly, leaving him with Ollivander, his brother and the shivering boy. A cold silence filled the room between them. Ollivander's gaze was level as usual, but his younger brother looked defiant. Finally Aberforth straightened and said in a harsh tone: "We've done what we could to help you. We'll be in the Hog's Head if you need us."

He strode away and after a moment, Ollivander followed him.

Dumbledore looked at Voldemort in Harry's body. He had put him into a chair, where he now sat in a trembling heap. His face was wet from sweat and tears and his mouth a thin, painful slash in his face. Whatever it was that had made him break down like this still seemed to haunt him behind his closed eyes.

What should he do with him? He had given up on Voldemort as a person many years ago. Rounding his desk and sitting down, Dumbledore eyed him thoughtfully. Of course what he saw was only Harry looking quite horrible, but beneath that was Voldemort, his very soul. Was he a broken piece, or a changed man, as Ollivander had suggested?

He had given up on Tom Riddle too early, when there was perhaps still hope to change the boy he was, and ever since he had made a point of giving people second chances, of trusting where others doubted.

And if he was given a second chance with Voldemort – so be it.


	27. Down Memory Lane

_Note/Warning: In this chapter there is a character with serious suicidal thoughts.If that disturbs you, please don't read. The views expressed by Phineas Nigellus do not resemble the author's and are not to be taken too seriously. _

* * *

**Chapter 27 – Down Memory Lane**

The hands that used to be Harry's were cold and clammy when Dumbledore pried them away from Riddle's face and made him drink a mixture of several calming and relaxing potions. Dumbledore always kept a number of them in his office; he had to deal with hysterical students, parents and teachers (and sometimes ministry officials) surprisingly often.

Riddle drank without protest. He stopped shaking and fell quiet, sagging back into the chair. After a while, he opened his eyes. Dumbledore thought they looked less vibrantly green than Harry's eyes, but maybe it was only the dulling effect of the potions. Riddle stared ahead, at the dark panels of the windows. The moon had set already, and the stars were paling. A long night was coming to an end.

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk, waiting for the other to say something. After a while, Riddle reached for Harry's glasses, took them off his nose and looked at them while turning them around in his hands as if he didn't quite know what to make of them. Then he put them on again. Still he seemed to avoid Dumbledore's eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that it barely carried over the short distance between them. He seemed to be talking to himself.

"I remember everything. I wouldn't remember things like that if they weren't real… I remember what my dormitory in the orphanage looked like and that I liked to sit in the space between my bed and the cupboard… I remember when the witch from Hogwarts came and told me I was a wizard. I remember getting my wand, I remember the train and being sorted… but I remember being sorted twice. I was sorted into Slytherin as Tom and into Gryffindor as Harry and they were both real… ".

His voice trailed off in wonder. Dumbledore decided it was time for a little clarity. "You know you're not Harry," he said carefully.

Riddle looked up, but still not quite at Dumbledore. "I didn't remember being Tom," he said. "My soul shared Harry's body and I didn't remember anything. It was as if I started all over again, from a new beginning, as if I were reborn. And all these years, I thought I was Harry Potter. But now I remember… and I know I was Tom Marvolo Riddle. I was Lord Voldemort."

Riddle stopped for a second and stared into space as if something invisible was distracting him. Then his eyes strayed to the desk between them and fell on Harry's wand. Dumbledore noted the longing in Riddle's eyes for the wand as if the wand were a necessary part of him. Dumbledore prepared himself in case he were to do anything rash.

"It is very strange," he murmured and raised his hand slowly. "I know I'm Tom, and if I had remembered that, I would never have done the things I did as Harry, I'd never have made the friendships I did, I never would have chosen Gryffindor over Slytherin… but I have done these things and those decisions still feel right now, because I know why I did them and how it felt like… it felt good being Harry, most of the time… "

Dumbledore wondered if Riddle was telling the truth or trying to deceive him. He dared not use Legilimency right now for fear that it might provoke him. He noted that Riddle's hand closed over the wand.

"And now I look back at my life" Tom continued " – Tom's life and I know that Harry would never have done what Tom did…"

"The question," said the Headmaster cautiously, "is what will you do now? What do you want?"

Tom nodded as if that sounded very reasonable to him. His hand was still closed around the wand, but he didn't take it. "Do I do what Tom would do or do I do what Harry would do?"

"And are these all choices there are?" Dumbledore asked delicately.

For the first time, Tom looked him in the eyes. He let go of the wand and leaned back in the chair, looking thoughtful. Dumbledore relaxed realising that Tom was merely overwhelmed by this awakening and wasn't planning to hurt him. "I could be both. I could be Tom who has lived Harry's life."

"I think that is who you are now," Dumbledore said with a nod. "Life goes on and we make decisions and experience new things and it changes who we are. Sometimes the changes are small and nearly imperceptible and sometimes they are huge and terrifying. But we cannot go back to being who we once were."

Tom had closed his eyes and didn't reply. He seemed to have fallen asleep. Dumbledore studied him for a long time, amazed by the strange things that had happened to this person. Then he got up quietly. He was glad that Riddle had fallen asleep, so he didn't wake him up. Instead he conjured up a narrow bed in the middle of the office before he left, hoping that sometime during the next few hours Riddle would wake up and choose a less uncomfortable place to sleep. Wordlessly he raised strong wards and placed charms on the room that would permit no one to leave or enter except for him. Even Tom in the full possession of his powers and memory would need several minutes to break these spells and that was enough time for Fawkes and the portraits to warn Dumbledore. Doing that, he could risk leaving Tom Harry's wand in case he woke up and needed something. And Dumbledore would finally get some sleep and time to think.

Tom wasn't asleep. He had merely been distracted by the wave of memory that seemed to drown him ever since he had started to recall his past.

It was as if his mind needed to re-examine every detail of his life. He had always had a near photographic memory, but this was more intense, even painful. Every tiny moment of his life seemed to come back in excruciating detail, with no order or system, many things at once. But what really overwhelmed him were the emotions that he felt at every recollection.

Living Harry's life had filled parts of himself that had been empty and dead. Many people had admired and liked him in school. But back then, they had all seemed the same to him – people who hoped to gain an advantage by being his friends, just like he was only nice to others to get what he wanted.

Now that he experienced what it was like to be someone's friend and wanting nothing more he was acutely aware of lost opportunities in Tom's life. He remembered Alphard, who had been there all the time, content to just be with Tom. Could Alphard and I have been friends like Harry and Ron? Tom wondered. They might have been, but not only had Tom killed Alphard, he realised that he never shared anything important with him. Furthermore, Alphard's death hadn't made him immortal, and even if it had, would it have been worth the price? Harry wouldn't have needed a second to choose between Ron and immortality.

But it wasn't just his life as Tom Riddle that he relived. There was Harry's life, as well. So many things Harry hadn't paid attention to suddenly sprung to his eyes with a totally different meaning. Some of it made him wonder – why had Harry dealt so differently with his horrible childhood? Why hadn't he been more like Tom?

Some of these memories hurt, too. Thinking of Hagrid and knowing that he was the one who had framed him for killing Myrtle was one of the worst things. Thinking of Myrtle, too, was awful.

He recalled seeing himself inside the diary and seeing himself through Harry's eyes and it was eye-opening. All his ideals and convictions fell apart in front of his eyes. What reason was there to hate people like Hermione just because her parents were Muggles? He still didn't like Muggles. In fact, Harry's life had only reinforced his old hatred. Most Muggles were ignorant, narrow-minded fools and those who weren't downright nasty still were dull and… well, Muggles. But that didn't say anything about Muggleborns. Hermione was a great witch and a great friend. And Squibs like Mrs Figg were less magical, but they had still done him good. They weren't bad people…

Some of his recollections made him smile – Hermione with her books and her obsessive studying and realising that this was just how he had been as a boy. 'The spell she put on those coins the Dumbledore's Army used to communicate wasn't all that different from what I used for the Dark Mark when I first invented it in my seventh year, I wonder what she'll say to that,' he thought and then he remembered that he wouldn't be able to tell her because he wasn't Harry, he was Tom, he was Voldemort. And all the power, all the knowledge suddenly wasn't worth anything if he couldn't share it with his friends. And that hurt as well.

He wanted to be Harry and forget about all of this … but not really. Forgetting who he was scared him. It seemed worse than dying – living without being himself. He blinked and stared at the dark walls of the office. There were things worse than death. What a strange thought. Living without knowing true happiness or friendship or love. Living without being yourself. Living and becoming someone you yourself hated was hell on earth.

Tom wanted to go back in time and relive his life so he would not be this person he hated. He wanted to see whether he and Alphard could really have been friends, to see what would have happened if Hagrid had never been expelled. 'I spent thirty years trying to escape death. I could have done so many other things in those years. And in the end, where did it get me? I killed, I mutilated myself and turned into a hideous monster and finally I was caught in my own body, unable to control it. I was a fool.'

"And a coward," the part of him that was still thinking like Harry added.

Everything he had once wanted now seemed worthless to him. So Tom thought of the things Harry wanted. Harry wanted to belong. Harry wanted affection. Harry wanted the people he loved to be safe. And sometimes it worked and then it was wonderful and easy, more so than anything Tom had ever known. Every single moment of this shared happiness, of friendship and belonging was worth living for, worth dying for. Compared to that, everything else was nothing.

'And I can never have it again.' The thought struck him all of a sudden.

'The friends I shared this with are Harry's friends. They will no longer be friends with me as they fear to speak my name.'

It was the deepest possible despair, knowing that he could never have the one thing that made life worth living for. It was worse than the touch of a Dementor because there was no way to fight it. None of his happy memories really belonged to him. He couldn't even tell himself that his despair wasn't real, because it was and it would never end.

'We cannot go back to being who we were,' he heard Dumbledore's voice. He couldn't go back and change who he was or what he had done.

He couldn't change the fact that he had turned himself into a hideous monster and that he had terrorised every witch and wizard in this land until even their children feared to speak his name.

He thought of Ginny and his diary; saw his younger self draining the life out of her, killing her. He thought of Mrs Weasley and the boggart showing each member of her family being killed by Voldemort's followers. He thought of Cedric. It didn't matter that Cedric had been killed on his soulless copy's orders and not on Tom's own, because he knew that he would have given the same orders. Voldemort was who he was, who he had been before he had lived Harry's life.

He thought of Sirius, sentenced to a life in Azkaban for being Voldemort's spy and how he would have thought it was delicious irony that Sirius was innocent. He remembered slowly corrupting Wormtail until the broken and terrified man spilled the Potter's last secret. It had been the copy, but Tom had wanted to do it. He, too, had been afraid of the prophesied child, and he, too, had wanted to kill him as soon as possible.

He had killed James first, then Lily.

Tom had the wand in his hand before he could think about it. There was no way to change the past, but there was a very simple way to end this.

This was the other side of knowing the things worth living for. This was the other side of Harry's readiness to sacrifice himself in order to save the ones he loved. Guilt. Shame. Despair.

He'd never been afraid of pain. He had gone through terrible pain in order to become immortal. Before, he had been afraid of not existing anymore, of simply ceasing to be there. Right now, every second of existence was too much.

"This is what I hate most about young people," a drawling voice said just as he pointed the wand at himself. It surprised him so much that he stopped long enough to listen. "They're selfish beyond belief. My pain, my life, my feelings is all that's on their mind. No sense of perspective, no responsibility, not a single grain of reason. It's bad enough to hear them ranting about it – and you wouldn't believe what I've heard in my life, boy, but what you're about to do is the most disgusting and selfish act of all."

It wasn't a person; it was a portrait talking to him. Phineas Nigellus, his memory supplied. Least popular headmaster of all times. Once head of Slytherin house, member of the noble and most ancient house of Black. Mocking him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Tom snapped. "You don't even know who I am."

Nigellus managed to look smug and derisive at once. "How woefully unoriginal of you, Mr Riddle.

"You don't know what you're talking about?" the portrait mocked. "That's not satisfying. That's what any pimple-faced Hufflepuff would say. But then again you're the person who thought it was stylish to call his followers the 'Death Eaters'."

Tom stared at him aghast. Nobody had ever dared to mock him like that, not since he had first called himself Lord Voldemort. And Nigellus obviously knew who he was; he must have overheard his conversation with Dumbledore. His anger must have shown on his face, for Nigellus raised his brows disdainfully.

"What? I think it was high time somebody told you this. And I refuse to be afraid of a man over sixty who styles himself Dark Lord but contemplates suicide over completely adolescent reasons," Tom didn't get a chance to say anything, because Nigellus seemed to enjoy ranting at him quite immensely. "Let me see. This is probably a case of 'nobody loves me.' Well, it seems that's your own fault, isn't it? And let me tell you something: they're not going to love you any more if you finish this. I can't figure out why, but they seem unreasonably attached to the boy whose body you inhabit."

Tom's throat went dry and he almost let go of Harry's wand. Harry. He hadn't thought of Harry at all. He hadn't even asked Dumbledore what had happened to Harry. He was probably behind the Veil, but could he come back now that the ritual ended? Probably not while Tom inhabited his body. But certainly not if Tom put the killing curse on himself.

Nigellus was still not finished with his tirade, but Tom wasn't listening anymore. He thought of Harry.

It was hard to think of Harry as a separate person from himself. For the last fifteen years, he had been Harry, or at least he had been so close to Harry that he hadn't been able to tell them apart. He knew everything about Harry, had shared everything with him.

Harry was the part of himself who had not done a lot of stupid, horrible things. The part of himself who had made all the right choices. The part of himself whom people loved.

The part of himself he was able to love, because Harry was not really a part of himself.

And suddenly, he understood how Sirius must have felt in Azkaban. He was unable to feel anything good, he was certain that nothing in his life would ever feel good again, but there was still somebody worth living for. Somebody he had to protect at all cost.

Tom put the wand away in disgust. He had come so close to destroying Harry's only hope to return from behind the Veil. But this time, at least, he would try to make the right choices.

Dumbledore hadn't been able to sleep as much as he needed or wanted to. It didn't do to stay awake for days at his age, but how could he sleep with this problem at his hands? Guiltily he took a few more of the potions that would keep him awake and going. Poppy Pomfrey would kill Snape if she knew the potions master had supplied him with these.

He thought about informing Minerva about the whole situation with Riddle and Harry, but even contemplating this conversation gave him a headache. No, he had to deal with Riddle first.

When he entered his office, he expected to find Riddle either sleeping or upset, but neither was the case. He was standing by the windows and staring outside. A cursory glance around the room told Dumbledore that nothing had been moved except for Harry's wand (which now lay on the desk once more) and a few of the instruments he used to gain quick intelligence about people's whereabouts. Who had Riddle looked for?

"Good morning," he said politely, even though it was almost lunch-time. "I hope you have had enough time to contemplate your situation?" This was, as he was very well aware a vain hope, because Riddle's situation was ridiculously complicated.

Without saying anything, Tom turned around. Dumbledore, barely noticed his lack greeting as Tom's appearance literally changed over night. He was of course still wearing Harry's body, but now everyone would have noticed that this wasn't the boy he had been the night before.

There were dark rings under his green eyes and he seemed to have aged years in the course of one night. Everything looked tight, tense and in control, from the thin slash of his mouth to his over all posture. Even his unruly hair seemed flattened.

"Aha," Dumbledore said, raising his brows slightly. "It seems you had more than enough time to contemplate, seeing as you obviously haven't slept at all."

Riddle did look exhausted, but past the point where he wanted to rest. "Is there a way to get Harry back from the Veil?" he asked.

"An interesting question, one that I have of course asked myself as well," Dumbledore replied. He hadn't expected Riddle to ask this and wasn't yet ready to give the answer, not before he knew more about Tom's intentions. "Does this concern you a lot?"

For a moment, Tom's tight control faltered, as if he wanted to say, 'yes, of course, don't be ridiculous', but instead he only said: "It does. If there is a way to get Harry back, do it, or tell me how, so I can do it. If there isn't one, say it now, so I can find a way to do it."

It was all there: Harry's fierce determination to save someone, Tom's utter confidence in his own abilities, Harry's youthful impatience, and Tom's cold practicality. And their shared willingness to risk everything they had in order to achieve their means.

Dumbledore smiled, the first genuine smile he had for Tom. "There are ways. I'm sure that between our shared knowledge and talent, it will be a manageable feat. But not before breakfast."

Meanwhile, Harry had overcome most of the trepidation he felt at finding himself in the afterlife replica of Grimmauld Place. Standing in the hall, staring at the empty spot where Mrs Black's portrait should have been, he tried to decide where to look for Sirius first.

He could go to the kitchen; Sirius had spent a lot of time there. He went down the hallway and down the stairs to the basement kitchen. But before he could even enter, he caught an awful scent like burnt wool only much worse and the dulled noise of a woman yelling and the muffled wails of what sounded like a young child. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Cautiously he approached the door and opened it just wide enough to glimpse through.

The kitchen looked a lot newer and tidier. Every surface was gleaming, except for the floor, where some dark liquid had been spilled. A woman was standing with her back to Harry, yelling at the cowering form of a tiny house-elf. The elf's left ear was small and crumpled like a shrunken carrot and she wailed like a little child.

" – piece of filth, should have your useless hands cut off at your miserable birth!" The woman's yelling was high-pitched and immediately reminded Harry of Mrs Black's portrait. The kitchen was empty except for her and the house-elf and he decided to leave as quietly as possible.

He suspected she might have been a younger version of Mrs Black, as he tiptoed back into the hall. He had come here to find Sirius, but what if he found his relatives as well? There were a lot of dead Blacks and from what Sirius had told him, none of them seemed very nice. Harry hoped that he couldn't be cursed in this world behind the Veil.

Stealthily he moved up the gloomy stairs to the first floor. The door to the room he had shared with Ron during his stay at Grimmauld Place wasn't entirely closed. He could see a young girl lying one of the beds, reading a heavy book. She was probably Harry's age and wearing what looked like a very old-fashioned dress-robe. Dark hair fell over her shoulders in heavy curls. She didn't look too menacing, but she reminded Harry of Sirius' cousin Bellatrix, and even though it couldn't be her because Bellatrix was still alive, he decided not to talk to her.

As he snuck down the corridor, he wondered why the doors of Grimmauld Place didn't lead away from it into other rooms that weren't supposed to be there as all others had so far. It made no sense, unless they only led away when Harry wanted to go some place else.

The next door he found open led to a study. He'd never been in this room before because it had always been locked. Tall bookcases filled nearly every space along the walls. The room was only lit by a weak gas lamp on the desk and looked like a looming cave inside a mountain of books. A man was sitting by the desk and writing with a long thin quill. It was red, like a cock's tail feather and flickered like a flame in the lamp's light.

Harry was sure this man wasn't Sirius and he had no desire to talk to him. As quietly as possible he edged away from the door.

Finally he came to the drawing room on the first floor. The door was wide open and every lamp seemed to be lit inside, so that it cast a warm and bright light into the dark corridor. It was silent, but Harry was certain that somebody would be in there. As he came closer, he saw more of the room. It was a completely different sight from the dusty, doxy-infested room he had cleaned with Sirius and the Weasleys. The high, olive-green walls were covered in magnificent tapestries and the moss-green curtains looked soft and velvety in the shine of the lamps, inviting one's touch to see if they were really as soft. Every surface of wood and glass was polished and rich in colour.

At the table in the middle of the room sat a man in dark robes. He was facing the door and Harry, but he didn't notice Harry because he was staring thoughtfully at something on the table. Hoping that he wouldn't look up, Harry came closer, until he stood almost on the threshold of the drawing room.

The man picked up a pack of cards and started shuffling them. Harry had time to study him closely. The man could have been Draco Malfoy's older brother, his hair was the same colourless shade of blond, – but he could also have been Sirius' brother, for his handsome face and his eyes looked startlingly like Harry's godfather. Harry estimated that he was about Mr Weasley's age.

He started to lay the cards on the table and Harry recognised what he was doing: he was fortune-telling like Professor Trelawney. After the last card he paused, frowning, then he looked up, directly at Harry.

Harry froze, half expecting the man to yell at him like Mrs Black, but he only looked mildly curious and then he smiled as if someone had made a joke only he could hear.

"You're not a Black," he said. "Unless one of my nieces had a son I haven't heard of. But actually you look more like a Muggle and that begs the question why you're here. Now, who would have Muggle friends? The lost son Sirius, obviously. But you're what – fifteen? Sixteen?"

Harry was still too stunned to answer, but hope flared inside him as the man mentioned Sirius.

"Alright, my first guess is that you're Sirius' godson."

Harry had no idea who this wizard was, but he didn't care. The man knew Sirius well enough to know that he had a godson. Excitedly he came closer.

"Do you know where I can find Sirius?"

"I might," replied the wizard, but he didn't sound inclined to do so, at least not yet. Harry felt desperate.

"Please, Sir –"

"You should," the wizard said, calmly ignoring Harry's plea, "be more cautious in this house, and also more polite. For example, you should find out who I am and if I'm to be trusted. To do so, you might introduce yourself."

Harry hesitated a moment. He had lived in the wizarding world long enough to expect people to know his name and the reaction in this case might not be positive if he gave away that he was the Boy Who Lived. This man could still be a Death Eater, or at least a wizard dark enough to sympathize with Lord Voldemort. But on the other hand the man had already figured out so much about Harry that he would probably know if he lied.

"My name is Harry Potter," Harry said warily. "I'm Sirius' godson."

The wizard smiled but it was a cool and distant smile. He pointed at one of the chairs at his table. "Sit down, please, Mr Potter. My name is Alphard Black."

"You're Sirius'… uh, his great-uncle? You bequeathed him money he used when he ran away from home," Harry said out loud before he could wonder if it was wise to do so.

"Indeed. And you are, if I'm not mistaken, the boy who almost defeated the Dark Lord?"

Harry wasn't surprised that Alphard Black knew this, but something about the way the man had phrased his question sounded strange. Two things, actually. The people who called Voldemort 'the Dark Lord' usually were his followers. And why did he say 'almost'? Very few people knew that Voldemort had returned.

"Well," Harry said uncomfortably, as he sat down on the offered chair, "I didn't really do anything. He tried to kill me when I was a baby and failed, that's all." He tried to sound guileless.

"And yet the Dark Lord was reduced to a shadow of his former self and needed thirteen years to return to his old power, or so I've been told."

"Who told you this?" Harry asked suspiciously. Until a few weeks, most wizards hadn't known that Voldemort had survived at all, and much less that he had returned. Only members of the Order or Death Eaters would have known better.

"Oh, a number of people," Alphard said airily. "I don't spend all my time in this house, you know? Everything I know about the war against Voldemort I've heard from people who died after me and brought some news with them. I died before the Dark Lord rose to power the first time." He hesitated a moment and then watched Harry very closely when he said: "He was the one who killed me."

"Voldemort?" Harry gasped.

"Yes, that's why I'm always interested in news about him. Your godfather has reluctantly told me some very fascinating things, especially about you."

"You've talked to Sirius? Is he alright? He's here in the house, isn't he?"

Alphard shrugged. "He's in the house, he's not in the house – this place doesn't work like the real world does."

"Well, how does it work, then?" Harry asked impatiently.

"That's the greatest mystery of them all," Black replied lightly. "How does the human mind work? Our mind doesn't follow the same laws as the material world. We can travel through time and space in our memory and imagination, we can be in two places at once and visit places that only exist in our head. We can make up people and lie to ourselves about those we know, we can assume and deduce, we can hope and despair and believe in impossible dreams. This place is created by our minds and it follows the rules of our minds."

Harry was momentarily stunned by this answer and then decided that the gist of it was probably: we don't know the rules and anything is possible. It was about as vague as one of Professor Trelawney's speeches or one of Professor Dumbledore's explanations. But one thing was sure: whatever Hermione had read in that stupid diary was wrong. Alphard laughed at his expression.

"You're a Gryffindor, aren't you?" It sounded just derisive enough to get on Harry's nerves. "Alright, it's not really that important. But you might see and learn things about your godfather that will surprise you, or confuse you or maybe even hurt you. You'll look into his mind, and a human mind can be a frightening place."

Alphard got up. As he did so, the lights in the room dimmed, and it seemed to age around them, soon looking much more like the drawing room Harry knew, although not quite as filthy. The cards on the table vanished as Alphard rose and then somebody entered through the door.

At first Harry thought it was Sirius and he wanted to call his name, but Alphard seized his shoulder firmly and shook his head. And then Harry saw why. The man who had entered wasn't really Sirius, and now that he was close, nobody would have mistaken him for Sirius. His floppy hair was a dull brown shade, his face was soft and sallow and nowhere near as handsome as Sirius. His scowl reminded Harry of the young Snape he had seen in the Pensieve.

He didn't notice the two at all, and Alphard steered Harry to the door and into the gloomy hall. "That young man is Regulus Black," he explained to Harry. He seemed to be lowering his voice and treading softly like Harry had before, as if he too feared to be overheard. Harry could detect a hint of sad disappointment in his voice. "Sirius' little brother. He's mostly harmless, another sad case of how this noble house has gone to ruins."

Harry looked over his shoulder. He could hear Sirius' brother ranting at somebody or something. Then they walked upstairs and the sounds subsided behind them. Alphard opened the door to one of the bedrooms. A wild-eyed woman sat amidst torn sheets and the walls looked as if a rabid animal had clawed off the wallpaper. She shrieked at them and they quickly closed the door.

"One of my great-aunts, I think," Alphard said coldly. "Madness runs in the family."

He opened the next door. It led into a barn with a very thin and ruddy looking white horse. They shrugged and went on to the next door. And there they finally found Sirius.

The room behind this door looked a lot like the bedroom on the first floor where Harry and Ron had slept. Two little boys sat on the floor. Both were wearing green wizard robes and shiny black buckled shoes (Harry thought they looked rather girly). The taller one was about seven years old and had a bright and handsome face. Even at this age it was unmistakably Sirius. The younger boy had brown hair, and Harry recognised him as Regulus Black. Between the boys lay a dog as huge as a calf with grey fur and glowing red eyes. It had a lolling tongue and looked friendly, but Harry knew it from his Care of Magical Creatures textbook: it was a hellhound.

The boys were totally absorbed by a long roll of parchment. Each of them had a small quill with colour-changing ink and they were drawing pictures.

Regulus drew what looked like a green worm. "It's a serpent," he said with a slight lisp. He added a few stick figures. "It's eating the Muggles!"

Sirius sucked at his quill and then drew a taller stick figure with a hat and a sword. "That's Salazar Slytherin," he said triumphantly. He started to draw what could have been a horse or a cow, or maybe an over-sized cat, but finally it looked more like a dog. Meanwhile, Regulus had drawn another two of the stick figures on his end of the parchment.

"This is you Sirius," he beamed, trying to get his attention, "and this is me." But Sirius didn't look up. Next to the dog Sirius drew another dog and then a very small thing and then a tall stag. The stag was easily the biggest figure on the parchment. Regulus pouted and started to draw a huge beast around the two stick figures of him and his brother. "It's a lion and it's eating us," he exclaimed loudly, trying to get Sirius' attention.

Harry stared at them, unable to find words for what he saw. The boys never looked up, but the hellhound was looking steadily at them with his red glowing eyes.

"As I said, the human mind can be a frightening place," Alphard said softly to Harry. Still neither of the boys looked up.

"Why is Sirius a child?" Harry whispered. "Is this really him?"

"He's remembering," was Alphard's calm reply. "His mind is caught up in the past. You can talk to him, but I don't think he'll recognise you right now. Better wait until he thinks of a time when he was older."

Harry knew that he couldn't do anything but wait, but watching Sirius like this scared him immensely. Whatever Alphard said, to him it looked like Sirius had lost his mind. This was unlike any thing he had ever experienced. There were no basilisks to slay, no Death Eaters to fight, no magic to help him. He wasn't sure if he could do this.


	28. A Daring Plan

If you wonder who 'Nicholas' is – Dumbledore is talking about Nicholas Flamel, his partner in research and the creator of the Philosopher's Stone.

* * *

**Chapter 28 : A Daring Plan**

During the night and the morning hours Tom hadn't been able to sleep. The faces of Harry's parents haunted him whenever he let his thoughts stray. It was only because he kept an iron control on his thoughts that he was able to keep sane. He focused on the most important thing at hand: getting Harry back safely. If only he could save Harry, it would feel as if he had saved a part of himself.

He resented Dumbledore's decision that they should eat before they started any kind of action, but it proved to be a good idea. After a few bites from his sandwich he felt stronger and more clear-minded than he had in hours. Dumbledore explained to him what had happened the night before. He told him about Aberforth's and Ollivander's little intrigue, that the information Ollivander had cunningly given Hermione about the Veil was wrong and that it had all been a plot to awaken Tom within Harry.

Tom didn't hide his anger at Ollivander and Aberforth well enough, for Dumbledore quickly tried to divert it by explaining that Harry could easily be brought back if they repeated the ritual once they had found a way to get Tom's soul out of Harry's body.

"It was of course very risky and I would never have given my assent if they had told me what they were planning. But Ollivander and Aberforth both have a lot more experience in these obscure fields of magic and it seems they were right about your soul being inside Harry," the headmaster said.

"You mean ancient magic?" Tom asked. 'Focus', he told himself, quelling his anger. 'Dumbledore isn't going to let you do anything to the wand-maker and his brother anyway.'

"Yes, old magic that centres on the soul. It is a very arcane and dangerous branch of magic," Dumbledore clarified.

Tom noticed that Dumbledore was still talking to him like he would talk to Harry, as if he sometimes forgot that he was talking to a wizard whose power and knowledge rivalled his own and not a Muggle-raised schoolboy.

"Soul-bonding, wizard debts, astral projection, using your soul in a binding contract, that kind of magic?" he said, waving his left hand over his plate. It was a wide field, some of it rather obscure, but he had studied it all. Dumbledore looked up from his tea and then smiled amusedly.

"It seems you know quite a lot about these things yourself."

"I do. I studied a lot of the remaining texts about the subject. It was an integral part of… of what I did to become immortal."

He knew how little Dumbledore was impressed by his quest for immortality. This was the man who had declined the use of the Philosopher's Stone. So the curiosity he saw in the older man had to be purely intellectual, something Tom could understand. His own studies had always had a clearly defined aim, but some of the things he learned along the way had held this kind of fascination for him, too. The joy of knowing and learning things was one of the few parts of his life that had never been tainted by fear and hatred.

"Did you ever visit the Bibliotheca Obscura in Venice?" Tom asked animatedly. "Probably not, it contains almost solely texts about the Dark Arts, but some of them are incredibly old and rare."

"According to Nicholas I thought it had been lost," Dumbledore replied. There was a spark of fascination in his eyes. Tom sensed that here they were on common ground. He wondered what it would have been like if Dumbledore hadn't mistrusted him when they were still teacher and student. What could they have achieved as partners instead of enemies?

"The library was only very well hidden, I found it by chance. How did your brother and the wand-maker learn these things?"

"Ollivander knows about ancient magic because he's older than the texts you have read. I suppose you might say he has found the only other way to immortality besides the Philosopher's Stone."

Tom stared at the old wizard. Could Dumbledore really be meaning this? "Ollivander has no soul? You mean he managed to turn himself into a demon?"

Dumbledore was surprised by how quickly he had come to this conclusion. "Yes. How did you make that connection so quickly?" He looked sharply at Tom above his glasses. "You tried the same, did you? That is how you happened to split your essence in two."

For a moment, Tom forgot that he had given up on immortality. He had to know. "How did Ollivander manage it?"

Dumbledore hesitated with his answer, looking doubtfully at Tom. He sensed that the old man tried Legilimency on him and tried to show Dumbledore that he didn't intend to ever use this information, still it was hard to let go of his defences. But for Dumbledore it seemed enough.

"Ollivander made a deal with a very powerful demon and sold his soul. In return he got the ability and knowledge he needed to create the first wands. Before that, wizards could only do wandless magic. But he lost his humanity together with his soul. Since then he has been neither dead nor alive, he neither eats nor sleeps, neither loves nor hates. For two millennia his existence has centred solely on making wands. It isn't a desirable way of living, trust me."

Tom thought about how it had felt to have his soul severed from the rest of his essence and about the many years he had spent as a prisoner in his own body. "I know," he replied.

His appetite was gone now and he was very tired. Even the pain and guilt he felt was dulled by the deep exhaustion. But he couldn't allow himself sleep, not now when every hour counted. He picked up Harry's wand and cast a wordless spell on himself. Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly. But Tom felt refreshed and awake and he would rather have this disapproving frown than pity from Dumbledore.

"All we have to do to save Harry is to get me out of his body, so Harry can return, right?" Tom said with renewed vigour. He got up and paced a few steps into the room, then he turned back and looked out of the windows. A plan was starting to form in his mind, and even though it was dangerous, Tom knew he had already done much riskier things to himself to achieve his means.

"The easiest way to get a soul out of a body is to use the Killing Curse. The problem in my case is that it might not work. It would have to be a very powerful curse, the likes of which only a handful of wizards could perform, namely you and me and my copy. Anyone weaker than that might be unable to kill me. But even if you could be convinced to use an Unforgivable on me to save Harry, which I think you could, it still might not work for… for a man like you."

Dumbledore didn't look as appalled at the suggestion that he try an Unforgivable as Tom had expected, but his expression was dark and closed off.

"I fear you're right. As much as I see the logic in it, I don't think I could use the Killing Curse." he said quietly. Tom nodded and put his hands on the back of the chair he had been sitting on.

"And even if you could it might not work because of the prophecy_: 'One must die by the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives .'_ So far, you interpreted this as meaning that only Voldemort can kill Harry or that only Harry can kill Voldemort. But there is a different interpretation of the prophecy. Voldemort and I are the same person; we share the same essence. But when I created him, I never meant for both of us to live. So I think this part of the prophecy refers to me and Voldemort, and that only he can kill me and only I can kill him."

"That is how Ollivander interpreted the prophecy," Dumbledore said slowly. An unhappy frown lined his old face. "But if only Voldemort can kill you and we have to kill you to get you out of Harry's body, that means we have the choice between saving Harry and killing the only person who can defeat Voldemort or effectively killing Harry based on our interpretation of a vague prophecy."

It was a horrible dilemma and Tom was glad that there was a way out. But Dumbledore didn't see it yet, and his voice sounded almost broken when he softly said: "I had so hoped it would never come to making this choice."

"It won't," Tom said coldly. He pushed his hair back, showing Dumbledore Harry's scar. Even now Tom could feel the faint tingle of pain coming from it and the magic connecting him with his copy. He saw the connection much clearer than Harry had been able to with his untrained mind. He could feel it pull tight and relax in long waves but it never gave away.

"I'm as good at possessing people as Voldemort is. I have a soul, so I can't exist in this world without a living body for longer than a few seconds before being pulled behind the Veil. But a few seconds will suffice. Voldemort will kill me with his own wand and I'll let him do it. The curse will eject my essence and soul from this body and in the few seconds I have left, I'll possess him. I'll fight him in his own body and I'll destroy him there until nothing is left." He spoke with a tone of vicious hatred without noticing it. "It might well destroy both of us, but I know I can do it. I have to. This is the only way a being like Voldemort can be defeated."

"Can you be sure?"

"I have created him."

There was a new respect in Dumbledore's look as he said this. Tom found that he liked it, much more than the fatherly pride with which Dumbledore sometimes regarded Harry.

He sat down again and started to list all the steps he had taken to create Voldemort. He told Dumbledore of the transformations his old body had undergone and of the night he had killed Alphard to sever his soul from the rest of himself. He explained that Voldemort was a copy of himself, not unlike his diary self had been yet more sophisticated.

He admitted his mistakes along with his triumphs for there was no way to deceive Dumbledore about this. He admitted that he had intended to become the soulless part of himself and not the one with a soul and that his copy had easily overpowered him.

Dumbledore made no comment; he only listened quietly, sometimes asking a question. Once or twice he nodded.

Harry watched the two boys for some time. Regulus grew more and more impatient with his brother, while Sirius was caught up in his own world. He was still drawing furiously and while it was the drawings of a child, Harry recognised a lot of the images. There were the marauders as animals, the house crests of the four Hogwarts houses, the Forbidden Forest unfolding around the marauders, filled with magical creatures of all kind. On one end of the sprawling drawing was Hogwarts, huge and complex, drawn with golden ink from the colour-changing quill. It reminded Harry of the way the Marauders' Map was drawn, although less skilfully. On the far end of the drawing was another castle, surrounded by a dark sea. It was far less detailed than Hogwarts, but its dark colours were of a surprising intensity. Harry thought that it might be Azkaban.

"He's drawing things that happened when he was a lot older than this," Harry observed in a whisper. "If Sirius' remembers Azkaban than he would remember me, too."

Alphard shrugged. "He might."

Suddenly Regulus jumped to his feet, red-faced and angry. He stomped across the parchment Sirius was drawing on, yelling, "I hate you and I'm going away now! I don't want to see you anymore!"

Alphard and Harry quickly stepped aside to let him through. They saw him walking down the corridor towards the staircase. As he did so, he seemed to grow, into a teenager and then a man. He dropped his quill at the top of the staircase, but when it reached the ground it had become a bottle that splintered and spilled its contents everywhere. Then he was gone.

Harry closed his eyes for a second. It was like being caught in a strange dream, but much worse, because usually when you're dreaming, even the weirdest things made sense because you were thinking with some kind of dream logic. But here nothing made sense.

When he looked back into the room, Sirius was still sitting on the ground and looking no older than before. But he was looking at the two of them with a mix of boredom and irritation.

"Sirius?" Harry asked. Sirius couldn't have forgotten him. They had been so important to each other.

"It's not my fault," Sirius complained. "He's just being stupid."

Harry stepped around the parchment on the floor and closer to Sirius. He knelt down. "Don't you recognise me?" He tried to be calm, but his stomach was churning with anxiety. "I'm Harry. Your godson. Don't you remember?"

Sirius stared at him and suddenly Harry was sure that, if only for a second, he was recognised. The look in the boy's eyes changed, it was no longer a child's expression. It grew dark and haunted, full of brittle fears, until it became dead and hollow. Sirius made a keening, painful sound and clutched his quill until it broke.

"Don't come here," he whispered, "Don't –"

He broke off and bolted to his feet, past Harry. Suddenly the child became a huge black dog, skirted Alphard and bounded down the corridor after his brother.

"Sirius!" Harry called, but he was gone. Harry clutched the discarded parchment. The coloured drawings blurred in front of his eyes. He felt torn in half and helpless, hungry for a thing he couldn't define but to weak to do anything about it. Something had been taken from him and he was naked to the world and hurting.

'I can't do this, I'm not strong enough,' he thought tiredly. He felt empty, yet the emptiness weighed him down like lead. Before he knew it, he lay on the floor. Earth and sand lay beneath his cheek, sticking to his hair. It smelled damp and of dying things.

Dementor like shadows were hovering around him, swooping over his lying form. They wanted to take something from him, but what they wanted was already gone.

"And just like this, you give up?" someone asked. Harry hated the voice and the speaker. He covered his ears trying to hide inside himself. He lay there a while before he realised he was waiting. But for what? He remembered being under the Imperius curse. A small voice coming from somewhere inside him had prompted him to fight it. Where was the voice now? Where was the instinctive knowledge of what he had to do? He felt very alone, still crushed by that emptiness, but part of him was thinking that his conscious wasn't necessarily that small voice but something deeper within him. With great effort he removed his hands from his ears. Reluctantly he listened to Alphard knowing that he was trying to help him.

"This is how Sirius became that way," Alphard continued. "When he came here he was angry and upset and he desperately tried to get back to you. I talked to him then while he was still sane – as sane as any Black ever was. He told me about you. But after some time he realised that he couldn't go back to you; that he had died. And he gave in to his despair like you are doing now. He is driving himself deeper into madness and further away from salvation with every moment that passes. I'm not exactly sure what your godfather went through in life, but it is clear that it was enough for him to create a hell of his own making. Do you want to do the same?"

"What can I do?" Harry said, feeling grains of sand sticking to his lips. They tasted bitter and salty like ash. One of his hands was wet and cold; water was lapping at his fingers in tiny waves.

"Nothing, perhaps. It can be very hard to save people from what they do to themselves. So many things can't be cured by love and patience."

Harry imagined Sirius, mad and lost, forever. "No. I won't give him up like this," he said. "I can't give up." And some of his strength came back to him. This was something he simply had to do. He got up to his knees and looked around. The salty sand and the water were gone, and he was sitting on a patch of grass, surrounded by dark hedges on three sides. In front of him was a small building. Everything here looked distinctly Muggle. It could have been somewhere in Little Whinging, but Harry had never been here before.

He looked up at Alphard, who stood a few steps behind him, closer to the hedge, with his hands in his pockets, looking haughty and bored. When he caught Harry's look, he shrugged. "It definitely isn't my memory."

Suddenly someone came around the building, swaying slightly, and slumped down on the stairs leading to the backdoor. It was Sirius, looking very handsome but slightly ruffled in a black Muggle suit. Harry recognised it as the one he wore in the pictures of James' and Lily's wedding. But he didn't look happy at all.

Harry decided it was time for another attempt to get Sirius back to his senses. But as soon as he approached him, Sirius looked up and smiled – it looked like a smile that was supposed to be cool but ended up bleary and sad.

"James," he said. "What's up? Running away from your bride already?"

"I'm not James," Harry said, looking straight at Sirius. But there was no recognition in his godfather's eyes. "I'm Harry."

"You can't leave them now," Sirius mumbled. Then louder he said: "You're a respectable man. Married 'n all."

He leaned back against the wall and looked up, angry and unhappy. "Feels like everything's falling apart, James. We and the marauders and you and I and everybody. Everyone's dying and leaving and marrying and working and… and it feels like the best part of our lives is already over."

Harry couldn't stay calm anymore. He made a step forward and seized Sirius' shoulder hard. "Sirius, look at me! I'm Harry! This isn't my parent's wedding. You're thirty-six, you've been to Azkaban and escaped and you fell through the Veil in the Ministry!"

Their faces were close and Sirius looked straight at Harry. His eyes were bright and clear and full of pain. And beneath that there was a tiny flare of recognition.

"I hated him for marrying," Sirius whispered hoarsely. "Lily was great, really, but how could he do this? How could he just say, look, we're finished with school and there's a war and I'm marrying! It was like he said: they were fun times but now they're over and we're grown-ups. I hated him for doing this and everyone knew it. That's why they all believed it when Peter framed me…" He looked down at his hands, hatred twisting his handsome face.

Harry felt terribly helpless. He wasn't used to people telling him things like this and didn't know what to reply. He slid down next to Sirius on the doorstep, leaving his hand on his shoulder. It was warm and bony under his palm and he could feel Sirius shivering.

"It's okay," Harry said awkwardly. "I mean… it was long ago, wasn't it?"

Sirius shook his head slightly. His face was half obscured by his long dark hair. There were streaks of grey in it now and he looked as thin and pale as he had when Harry first met him. With one hand he grabbed Harry's hand on his shoulder and held on to it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for not being there so long… I have failed you and your father in every way. I could have tried harder to convince them of my innocence – but what for? It was all lost, wasn't it? I could have escaped earlier. I knew Peter was out there. I should have killed him when I had the chance to do so."

"I told you not to do it, so it's my fault as much as yours," Harry replied. He was glad that Sirius was finally talking to him and not to a figment of his mind. But he didn't want to hear Sirius saying sorry to him for things Harry didn't want to blame him for. He wanted Sirius to be strong and happy.

Sirius said nothing for a long time. Then he frowned at Harry. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Harry's mouth was suddenly dry. He had imagined that Sirius would be happy to see him and glad that Harry had come to his rescue – even though he couldn't save him from death this time – like he had been when Harry had used the time turner to rescue him. But Sirius didn't sound happy at all to see him. Instead he suddenly bent forward and gripped Harry by his upper arms, staring wildly at him.

"Are you - ?"

"I'm not dead!" Harry quickly said. He gave a fast and jumbled explanation of how he had come here and why. "I thought I could maybe do something for you," he finished lamely. Sirius wore a dark scowl on his face. "Because Hermione said that this place was like hell and you don't deserve this. I guess… I guess I was wrong, because there are people like Cedric here and Cedric didn't fall through the Veil."

"You came here to save me." Sirius slumped back against the wall and looked at the gloomy sky. "Damn."

"You're feeling better now," Harry tried to defend his actions. "You're not, you know, mad anymore."

"You fought against the Dementors to save me. You ran to the Ministry because Kreacher told you some lie about Voldemort kidnapping me. And now you followed me to the underworld to help me? I'm your godfather! I'm supposed to look out for you, not the other way round!"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, but he didn't feel sorry. It didn't matter who was supposed to do what. The Dursleys hadn't looked out for him either.

Sirius sighed. "No, you're not. It's not that I don't appreciate what you do. But I love you, Harry, and I'm – I was supposed to protect you with my life, like your Mum and Dad did. Your life is much more important to me than mine. You have a future."

Harry didn't know why he suddenly said: "I have to kill Voldemort," but his chest was incredibly tight when he heard the word 'future' and he felt he would suffocate if he didn't tell Sirius about the prophecy. "The prophecy the Order protected in the Ministry was about me and Voldemort. It says that I have to kill him – or he kills me."

In the shocked silence that followed from Sirius, Alphard had come much closer and was listening curiously. But neither of them noticed.

Sirius exhaled with a broken sound coming from deep inside his chest. Then he swore under his breath. Of all the people who knew about the Prophecy, he was the first who reacted like this. Harry was grateful for that, for he didn't think he could have handled another person reacting with optimism and confidence that he himself couldn't feel.

Sirius awkwardly pulled him into an embrace, holding onto Harry much tighter than Harry did.

Harry didn't let go and after some time, he relaxed in Sirius arms. Sirius realised that he had fallen asleep. No one had ever fallen asleep in his arms. He felt strong and useful and protective, more so than he ever had. How could they expect this boy to fight Voldemort?

"You have to let him return," the man who had accompanied Harry said softly. Sirius looked him up and down and remembered his face. It was his uncle Alphard. He dimly recalled having seen him after he fell through the Veil.

"How is it your business?" he asked in a low growl, careful not to wake Harry.

Alphard smiled thinly, but didn't reply directly. "You said you're supposed to protect his life. As you know very well you've failed badly so far. Don't you think you should be a good godfather at least this once?"

If he hadn't had Harry in his arms, Sirius would have been at his uncle's throat in a second.

The way Alphard spoke coldly and sternly reminded Sirius of his father and that made it worse. "Be an adult, Sirius. Be strong for the boy. Show him that he doesn't need to worry about you. If you can't do that, at least pretend it. And then tell him to go back."

But his father had never said anything so reasonable to Sirius.


	29. Getting There

**Chapter 29 – Getting There**

Sirius waited patiently for Harry to wake up. He looked like he needed sleep and Sirius didn't look forward to letting him go. After a while, sitting on the doorstep of the place where James had married Lily got uncomfortable, especially with Harry's head in his lap. He concentrated on a different environment and they ended up on a couch in the Gryffindor common room as Sirius remembered it from years ago. It was decorated for Halloween and outside the windows it was night and raining. The fire in the fireplace had almost died down and it was much quieter than Sirius had remembered.

His uncle Alphard had followed them effortlessly and now looked around curiously. Finally he settled down on an armchair, looking very much at ease.

Harry seemed dead to the world and Sirius dared to talk in a low voice.

"You've been around here for a while?"

"Long enough to know that 'here' isn't exactly the right word. But yes, I've been dead for a while as you should recall and I've been in this state of mind ever since," Alphard replied in an equally low tone.

"So everyone comes here?" Sirius asked, ignoring his uncle's nitpicking.

Alphard looked slightly exasperated. "Yes, everyone. Death is quite unavoidable."

"So why aren't they here?" Sirius gestured at the gloomy room with the hand Harry wasn't lying on.

"Not everyone stays here. In fact this is only the first step of the journey that is death. We are the people who are still clinging to their lives with all their might. Some of us become ghosts, but most of the dead are in this confused state of mind before they manage to let go and go on."

Sirius considered asking how Alphard had come by this information, but he had more pressing thoughts. Should he try to go on – whatever that meant – and go after James who was probably not here anymore? Or should he stay and try to remain sane in a place that took every opportunity to mess with his imagination? How long would he have to wait for Harry or for Moony to come? He could wait for Peter, who hopefully would die soon, and he could make death hell for the little piece of scum… actually, that sounded very appealing. He grinned.

"Your godson really is quite extraordinary," Alphard commented quietly. "It was a foolish thing to try and do, but he managed to save your soul."

Sirius looked down at the sleeping boy. Even with his eyes closed and his scar obscured by hair, Harry didn't really look like his father. His face was soft in all the places where James' had been tough and hard in all the places where he had been soft. "He's really something."

"I believe he has a very good chance at winning this fight," Alphard said with a smile.

Sirius felt absurdly grateful for this expression of confidence, even though he had no reason to believe in this man he barely knew.

Dumbledore gave Tom one of the unused teacher's rooms to have some rest and time to himself. The rooms had windows looking out over the lake and they usually belonged to the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

Harry wanted to become an Auror (even though, in Tom's opinion, Harry had only a very vague idea what the job was like) but Tom thought that being a teacher would be a much more appealing occupation. He liked Hogwarts and felt more at home here than anywhere else. But whether he defeated Voldemort or not, becoming a teacher here or anywhere would be out of question.

After he nearly fell asleep in the shower, he crawled into the huge bed and slept deeply and dreamlessly for sixteen hours. It was half past ten in the morning on the second day since Harry had left his body.

Somebody – no doubt a house elf – had brought a tray with tea and breakfast to the room and there was a note from Dumbledore telling Tom that he would not be back before noon. Tom stared at it for some time. Dumbledore didn't say where he had gone and probably he would be able to get back in an instant, but it still seemed like a very trusting gesture.

He found some of Harry's clothes, neatly folded on a chair and took another shower before dressing.

Harry never spent a lot of time looking at the mirror and Tom didn't intend to, either, but then he nearly forgot to brush his teeth while staring at his reflection.

It was perhaps the strangest sensation yet, to look at this face and think 'I am not this person.' At first it was creepy and confusing, but the longer he stared at the green eyes and the glasses and the wet hair clinging to his forehead, at the lightning bolt scar and the slight tan on Harry's nose and cheeks, the more he calmed down, until he felt almost serenely happy and balanced. His reflection smiled, shyly at first, then widely, his chin still smudged with white toothpaste, and he could easily pretend that this was Harry looking at him and not he in Harry's body.

"And it will be Harry again," he said to himself as he tore his eyes away from the mirror.

Tom ate while looking out of the windows at the grounds. But his mind was already occupied with his plan. He would have to confront Voldemort at Azkaban, amidst his loyal followers. He had been to the prison once, in the years when he shared his body with the copy and remembered the place vividly. It was accessible only by boat or broom, a magical fortress built on a rock in the North Sea.

As the clock struck half past twelve, Tom left his room and walked to the headmaster's office. He wondered what he would do if he met someone now. He would have liked to say something profound to Ron and Hermione but he couldn't imagine how to explain the fact that he wasn't Harry but he still had been Harry all this time and that it felt like they were his friends, too. He wanted to say thank you, and good-bye and other things, but it would just be very awkward.

He didn't want to think about never seeing them again, either.

The password at the stone gargoyle had been changed and Tom was stuck there for a while trying out every sweet he could think of but nothing worked until he started with those he remembered from his own school-years, old-fashioned things you didn't get anymore these days. It wasn't something he remembered very well, food had never interested him, but the statue finally gave in when he said "Honey Snakes, or I'll show you that it _is _possible to get past you without the password!"

"Good Morning." Dumbledore sounded a lot graver than Tom expected. He looked very busy and was just attaching a letter to an owl, before it flew out the window. "There were some matters I had to attend to, your Alter Ego has been busy last night and neither the Ministry nor the Order seems able to function without me these days."

Images of the Weasleys, of Remus, Tonks and the other Order members, of everyone he knew flashed in front of his eyes, murdered, like the images the boggart had shown Mrs Weasley.

"What did he do?" he asked tightly. Dumbledore looked over his glasses at him.

"There was a Death Eater raid near Birmingham, seventeen Muggles died. The Ministry is still obliviating people and trying to mask the incident as a Muggle-caused explosion."

Tom let go the breath he had been holding and took a seat. Just some Muggles, he thought gratefully.

"We managed to arrest two Death Eaters, new recruits from Russia and Romania who may have been involved in the attack that caused Durmstrang to be closed last week." Dumbledore sounded resigned, assessing the wins and losses like an old soldier.

"The sooner we enact our plan, the sooner this will stop," Tom said. Dumbledore hadn't yet given his consent, but Voldemort's actions would hopefully make him realise that it was necessary. Voldemort's plan would be to continue these attacks until Harry gave up and came out of hiding. He would start with random Muggles, and then he would move on to Muggleborns and those who were in alliance with Harry or Dumbledore and finally he would find those who were closest to Harry, one by one…

"So you haven't changed your mind," said Dumbledore.

"No."

There was a short silence, but Dumbledore had made up his mind as well. He nodded.

"Good," Tom said. If Dumbledore had said no, there would have been a confrontation and that could have been very ugly. "I take it you still have spies among the Death Eaters?"

Dumbledore gave him all the intelligence he had concerning Azkaban and the number of Death Eaters there, but except for Snape, he gave no names for his sources.

They had to expect at least forty wizards and witches, as well as over a hundred Dementors and possibly other dark creatures at Voldemort's command.

"So there are two problems," Tom concluded. "How do I get to Lord Voldemort and how do we get Harry's body out of the castle once I have vacated the body. Apparition and the use of port-keys are out of the question. Your brother has a very interesting method of travelling, though."

"Voldemort has witnessed Aberforth's door magic in Privet Drive," Dumbledore objected with a shake of his head. "He will most likely have warded Azkaban against it."

Tom frowned, tapping his fingers on the surface of the table. All methods of instantaneous travel were rendered impossible. That left only the traditional ways of reaching Azkaban: by the sea or through the air. But in both cases it was impossible to surprise Voldemort, who would sense him approaching long before he reached the castle.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "The simplest way to enter a well-guarded fortress," he said with a quiet smile, "is to make its master ask you in. Lord Voldemort wants Harry to come to him so he can kill him. Every Death Eater has orders to capture Harry and deliver him to Voldemort."

"Are you suggesting that I let myself be captured?"

"Yes. But not just by any Death Eater. Someone on our side can deliver you directly to Voldemort. That way, Aberforth and I can accompany you and there will be three capable wizards with you to guard Harry's body and either perform the ritual right there or leave with the body."

Tom would have found the plan delightfully cunning if it hadn't involved Snape. Hating and distrusting Snape was even easier with the knowledge of his past. The man had not only failed Harry (at the very least Tom knew he could teach Occlumency better) but he had also betrayed Voldemort. What guarantee was there that he wouldn't betray Dumbledore?

Dumbledore had no such concerns, or if he did, he hid them well.

They had had to wait for Snape until the evening when he returned from Azkaban and then Dumbledore had called him to his office and had listened patiently to the sparse news Snape could give him.

Dumbledore said nothing about Tom or the things that had happened in the Ministry. It was their plan to leave Snape in the dark about most of it, so Voldemort couldn't pick the truth from his thoughts until it was too late.

Several times Snape tried to object. He shot both of them irritated glances and Tom could barely withstand the temptation to reveal his true identity and repay the man for the five years of spite and ridicule Harry had had to endure under him. But Dumbledore stayed kind and patient and completely unreadable.

"I understand that you have many questions, Severus, but I must ask you not to doubt me in the this case. You have to deliver Harry to Voldemort and grant access to Aberforth and me to Azkaban. If you find yourself unwilling or unable to do so without any further questions, you may leave now."

Snape looked outraged. His beady eyes darted from the headmaster to Tom and bore into his. Indignantly, Tom realised that Snape was trying to gain the information that Dumbledore didn't want to give him from Harry. He closed his mind off completely, startling the spy and looked at Dumbledore.

"He won't do it," he said coldly. "We'll have to find another way." Dumbledore must have realised that Snape was using Legilimency on Tom, but Dumbledore didn't say anything. He merely glanced at Snape, waiting for him to answer or leave.

Tom was sure that Snape would leave. The man was a selfish git who hated Harry. He wouldn't risk his life and Voldemort's trust to do what Dumbledore asked of him.

Tom was wrong. Snape's voice was full of venom and his face a mask of fury, when he rose with a swish of his dark robes and said: "I'll do it."

Dumbledore smiled and rose as well. "We'll see you tomorrow, then, Severus."

Snape glared and left.

Harry woke with a small gasp and jolted into a sitting position next to Sirius on the sofa. In his dream, he had been in a completely dark place and something huge and hot had coiled around him like a snake trying to crush him with its body while he had grown smaller and thinner until he was barely there anymore.

He was in the Gryffindor common room and someone was squeezing his arm. It was Sirius.

"Oh," Harry said breathlessly. "I'm sorry."

"Bad dream?" Sirius asked.

Harry nodded. His mouth still tasted bitter from fear and sleep. The taste and the hammering of his heart, Sirius' touch and the smell of the room - it was hard to believe that these things weren't real.

"Did I sleep very long?"

"A few hours," Sirius replied.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be," Sirius said, grinning. "I always liked you best when you were sleeping." Harry didn't know what to say and after a beat, Sirius added: "When you were a baby, at least."

Then Sirius got up and stretched his arms and legs with a growling yawn. "Now that you're up, you should think about getting back where you belong."

"What about you?" Harry asked. He didn't want to leave yet. What would Sirius do when he was gone?

His godfather shrugged. "I've heard that this isn't the only place for dead people to be, that you can go on further and such. I guess I'll try that and see if I can find James and Lily. If it doesn't work, well, I'll be waiting for the rest of you."

"You could take care of your little brother," Alphard chimed in from the other end of the room. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that." Sirius glared at him.

Then he turned back to Harry. "I can take care of myself, alright? And I want you to take care of yourself."

Harry nodded. He got up and stood in front of Sirius a little awkwardly, but finally he did what he wanted to do and hugged his godfather. They both held each other tightly, with trembling hands, knowing that it was too little and too short for both of them. Then finally Sirius let go. His eyes were very bright when he looked down at Harry.

"Go," he said softly. "We'll see each other again."

Harry nodded. The room was silent for a second and Sirius and Alphard looked expectantly at Harry. Nothing happened. Finally Harry looked down at his feet and smiled nervously. "There's, um … a little problem? I don't know how to get back."

Sirius frowned. "They didn't tell you how to get back?" he asked angrily.

"I was only told not to forget that I am alive."

"Did they give you anything? A charm or a talisman or a word to say?" Alphard inquired.

Harry shook his head. "Perhaps it just happens when the seven days are over?"

"And if it doesn't?" Sirius asked tensely. "Come on, you have to try. Think of something, of getting back, of your body, of how it feels to be alive."

Harry tried, feeling stupid and awkward. He even closed his eyes to concentrate but the fact that they were both still staring at him made him fidgety. "It doesn't work," he said.

But neither Sirius nor Alphard gave up so quickly. They both started to give him tips, speculating how he could best do it and encouraging him not to give up. They made him think of his body, the Ministry, people who were alive, food, whatever came to their minds. Then Sirius got the idea to retrace Harry's journey through the world beyond the Veil. It didn't work, they got as far as the hall of Grimmauld Place but then Harry was unable to get from there back into the kitchen of Cedric's grandmother. It seemed like they were running out of ideas fast.


	30. Voldemort's Victory

**Chapter 30 - Voldemort's Victory**

Tom noticed the sombre demeanour of the other three wizards who were waiting with him at the Hogwart's Apparition Point the next morning. Were they having second thoughts about this plan like he was? Although Tom knew the plan was sound, there were too many people he had to rely on for it to work. He trusted Dumbledore as far as it was possible for him to trust anyone but himself. But both Aberforth and Ollivander were unknowns and so far had been unreliable. As for Snape, who hadn't arrived yet, he was an outright traitor.

It had rained during the night and the grass was soft and wet, with mist rising into the air at the approach of dawn. Ollivander was waiting for them at the Apparition Point, a grey figure in the morning mist, giving Aberforth some last instructions. Tom eyed him warily but not without curiosity. Now that he knew that the wand-maker had achieved immortality long before him, Ollivander merited a closer look. There were certain similarities between Voldemort and this little ancient wizard: the unnatural colour of their eyes, the way their magic felt slightly different, and the fact that he neither blinked nor breathed.

Snape arrived, wrapped in a billowing black hooded cloak, his Death Eater's attire. As they heard his steps approaching in the dewy grass, Aberforth and Ollivander stopped talking. Aberforth hid the knife he would use to stab Harry's body in a fold of his tattered brown cloak. Snape wasn't to know anything about their plan.

"Will he be accompanying us, too?" Snape asked, glaring at Ollivander.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, just the four of us. Are we ready, gentlemen?"

Ollivander nodded, giving a little bow to Dumbledore and then walked away, melting into the mist. The sun was rising now, bathing Hogwarts in an unreal, enchanted glow. A bird called from the lake.

Tom turned his back on the castle, moving to the Apparition Point. He was just getting ready to Apparate, when Dumbledore grasped his elbow, gave him a pointed look and said: "Side-along Apparition, Mr Potter."

Right. They had to make Snape think that he was still Harry. He smiled blandly at Dumbledore, hiding his irritation.

Snape was first to disappear, almost soundlessly, after giving Tom another hard, suspicious stare. Aberforth followed with a small crunching noise, like someone walking on snow.

Dumbledore gently pressed his elbow, and as the world blackened around them for a second, Tom was sure that he would not return. It felt like a knife was twisting in his guts, ripping out ties (that he hadn't known had been there) to this place.

They reappeared on a lonely strip of coast. The air smelled of the cold green waves crashing onto the sand and the wind swept a faint spray of saltwater into their faces. The sun in the east over the sea was dimmed by a veil of grey clouds.

Aberforth had vanished under a Disillusionment Spell, but Tom could still feel his presence like a dent in the soft fabric of magic currents in the air. The magic was different here than in Hogwarts, less intense and more like a quiet pervading chill.

Dumbledore, too, had taken on some form of invisibility. To Tom, who knew he was there, he was only slightly blurred as if the air around him was very hot, but to anyone who didn't expect him he would be invisible. Tom had never seen or known anyone but himself who was able to do it so perfectly.

Snape led them to a narrow boat that had barely enough room to carry four people. Magic kept it from being washed away by the sea. Snape climbed into it first, Dumbledore and Tom followed and Aberforth took the rear.

Tom took his seat on the wet and cold wood, facing Dumbledore, who was too tall to sit comfortably. Tom tried to look impassive, as a victim of the Imperius Curse would, since that was how they intended to make it look.

At a flick of Snape's wand, the boat glided off the shore and into the open sea. It should have been rocked by the waves, but it moved straight as a plough through the water that lapped noisily at its side. The air grew colder with each minute and even though the sun must have been rising, it grew darker. An unnatural fog lay on the water, stirring lazily around their boat. Behind him, Tom could feel Aberforth's presence growing weaker and more silent, like a conscious mind that drifted off into sleep.

He could see no further than a few yards into the fog by now and the cold became oppressing, interlaced with a heavy darkness that weighed right down onto his heart. They were coming close to Azkaban.

Some of the shadows around them grew solid, circling their boat like vultures. Tom looked at Dumbledore. His face was lined with concentration, but his eyes were calm and undisturbed as if nothing could harm them.

Dementors had never affected him that badly before he lived Harry's life. After the severing of his soul, Voldemort had felt almost comfortable in the presence of these creatures. Now it was all Tom could do to try and fend them off with Occlumency, but he couldn't suppress all of the cold and depression seeping into his mind. It frightened him how easily every good feeling could be taken away from him. His confidence seemed foolish now. Weren't hatred and fear much more powerful? They at least could not be stolen from him so easily; they were constants, growing only stronger in time…

He was reassured when Dumbledore put a hand on his arm and squeezed it tightly. It was a small and wordless touch, too short to leave anything behind but a fleeting feeling of warmth, but it was a clear vote of confidence and trust. Their quiet exchange was interrupted by the jolt that went through the boat as it crashed onto a sandy shore.

Dumbledore let go of him immediately and Snape rose, jumping out of the boat. The fog was so thick down here that until then, Tom hadn't noticed the rocks all around them and the dreary edifice rising before them.

Two hooded figures came down from the fortress. One of them had his wand raised. Tom remained sitting still as a statue, but Dumbledore rose quietly to his full height, unseen by the two Death Eaters, and climbed out of the boat. Anyone who didn't know he was there wouldn't have seen the water stirred by his feet or his footsteps in the sand as he walked a few steps towards the castle.

The Death Eaters had lowered their wand and were talking to Snape, their voices lost in the rolling of the waves. At one point they both gasped in surprise and stared at the boat and its only visible passenger. Snape returned and seized Tom by his upper arm, almost at the same place where Dumbledore had touched him minutes earlier. He led him up the shore to the two others and Tom felt like a lone steer being driven to the slaughter.

Neither of the two men both wore their silver masks, but Tom didn't recognize their faces as they stared at him. Snape, too, threw him another intense look, but this time he wasn't trying to read Tom's mind, he merely frowned and after a second his frown turned into a mask of arrogance.

"I'm not here to waste time. Today is the day of the Dark Lord's triumph," Snape said.

"Our Master is in the inner court. Some of us have captured the crew of a Muggle ship and a reporter from the Daily Prophet was hiding on it, Sir," the younger of the two said with reverence.

"I'm sure he will be delighted to be interrupted by this," Snape answered coldly and led Tom up to a flight of slippery stairs that had been carved into the rocks. Tom didn't look back; he stared vapidly ahead, keeping up the illusion of a person under the Imperius Curse. Behind them he could sense the headmaster and his brother following them.

Azkaban was covered in dark magic. Decay and despair leaked out of every hole and every corner. It grew like fungus on the ground and rose into the air like the deadly fumes of poison. Every sensible wizard should have been able to tell that this place was cursed and Dumbledore had told the ministry countless times to give the fortress up, to install the prison elsewhere, not to deal with the creatures who inhabited the island, but for some reason they were unable or unwilling to see it.

Since Voldemort had made Azkaban his own, the feel of the place had shifted into a more aggressive direction, it had been an illness before, but now it was sentient malice.

Albus hated coming here, and yet he had had to visit the fortress numerous times in the last twenty years. The prison and its soulless guards were one of the few things that truly scared him.

But now, as he climbed the few steep stairs that led up to the main entrance, he was grateful for the all-consuming aura of evil that hung in the air, for it hid his presence more perfectly than any spell.

Both Severus and Tom were doing their part very well and he was proud of them, but also afraid for them.

The door was opened and they stepped inside. He and Aberforth barely managed to slip through before the second Death Eater closed it.

They entered a dark, smoke-filled hall. Another flight of stairs led up and down from here, and at the end of the hall was another heavy wooden door. A flickering torch was the only source of light. It could have been winter or night; there was no way to tell in this place.

A third Death Eater came down the flight of stairs. At first Dumbledore didn't recognise the tall gaunt man with the deathly pale and hollowed face, but then he noticed the colourless hair spilling out of his hood. It was Lucius Malfoy, terribly altered by only a few weeks in prison.

"Severus," Malfoy greeted, but then he stopped, raising his brows as he spotted Harry. "What a surprise."

The older of the two Death Eaters who had received them at the shore approached Malfoy, throwing Snape a suspicious glance. "Sir, do you believe this is the real Harry Potter? What if it is a ploy –?"

Malfoy silenced him with a raised hand, giving Snape a mirthless smile. "Don't be ridiculous. Severus may be an incorrigible turncoat, but he isn't stupid. Of course he doubled-checked that this is the real Boy Who Lived."

Malfoy had just begun to study 'Harry' a little bit more when a terrible shriek startled everyone in the room. It came from the door that led to the inner court of the fortress and lasted for a few seconds before it dropped to a hoarse, inhuman wail. Lucius, thankfully, was looking at Snape at that moment, but Dumbledore wasn't sure whether the other two Death Eaters had noticed that Tom had reacted and looked at the door like everyone else did before he returned to his act of a mindless captive. The older one frowned strangely at the boy and then he opened his mouth. But no sound came from him and after a beat he closed it again, looking confused. He scratched his chin and shuffled at little.

Tom looked no different than before, but then Dumbledore glimpsed the way Snape was holding his wand half-hidden by his long sleeves and he realized that Snape had reacted quickly in this dangerous situation.

"Enough," Snape said, in answer to something Lucius had said before. "I and I alone have done this service to the Dark Lord and I will present him with the boy."

He seized Tom by the shoulder and opened the door to the court, leading them through. Malfoy followed suit and Aberforth slipped through unnoticed. Dumbledore took his chance as the confounded Death Eater lingered a second.

The court was a square place surrounded on all sides by the walls of the prison. It was devoid of all colour or life and the ashen ground looked as if it had never seen the light of the sun. It was the place where the nameless dead of Azkaban were hurriedly buried without a sign or inscription to remember them.

Now it was filled with people in dark robes. They looked more like the sightless Dementors that crowded in the sky above the court than like men and women. At the very centre, four bodies lay on the ground, of which only one still seemed to have some life in it. It was probably the one who had emitted the scream a few minutes before, Tom thought. They were just Muggles though and almost dead.

More and more of the Death Eaters turned around from the spectacle to look at the small group that had just entered. Tom stared straight ahead, but in his mind, he was counting their numbers. They were many, more followers than he had had at the prime of his first reign, but now they seemed less magnificent to him. Their faces were hidden by masks, but beneath that he sensed fear.

They were more afraid than even the pathetic Muggles they had tortured and killed and the sight of them filled Tom with disgust.

It was hard to keep an impassive expression on his face. His scar hurt like never before, so much that he expected blood to run down his face. He wasn't cold anymore, but filled with burning lead, and something was pulling at him like a magnet. Power tingled at his fingertips, sharper than the fear around him and it watered his eyes and made the hairs all over his body stand.

The people around them parted like water and yet they weren't fast enough for Tom. He needed to see _him_ now. He needed to lay his eyes on Voldemort before his body broke under the pull of his soul. Harry's body could barely hold him now and he doubted that he would need the killing curse to leave it.

But Snape stopped shortly before they reached the centre of the court and he was forced to wait another unbearable moment before he saw _him_, taller than anyone else in the court and from the moment he lay his eyes on the white face framed by dark cloth, it was just the two of them. They were less than two people and yet not one, what they shared was too little to be shared and it hurt them and killed them at every second.

They walked closely behind Tom and Severus. Aberforth would have to reach the boy quickly when it happened and Albus would have to be there to defend him.

All eyes were on the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived, except for Voldemort who was looking at Snape, his face too inhuman to read. Did he suspect something? He stopped when there were still a few steps between them.

"Look closely, my friends," he said. He wasn't talking loudly, but the breathless silence carried his voice into the darkest corner of the court. "For here is the proof of our victory. But it is not what you think. The proof is not this boy they have called the Boy Who Lived, the one who is said to have defeated the Dark Lord. He is but a pawn, aided by luck and coincidence. The proof of our victory is that he is brought to me by a traitor who has sworn allegiance to my worst enemy."

A hiss went through the crowd and wands were gripped waiting for the Dark Lord's order. Snape remained pale and still as an alabaster statue.

"I have no illusions about your loyalty," Voldemort said coldly to the crowd. "All of you are bound by fear and greed and these are the strongest forces known to men. But for long years you feared others more than me. If today a man who knows better than all of you what I am capable of and what my enemies are capable of decides that he fears me more than them, isn't it the proof that I have finally won?" He made a sudden step towards Snape and Tom. "Isn't it, Severus?"

Snape bowed his head. "It is, my Lord."

Voldemort smiled. His blood-coloured eyes swept slowly over his assembled followers. They glided past Dumbledore without seeing him or his brother.

"But still, you maybe ask yourselves if my victory today is final. The Dark Lord has been defeated once, he may be defeated again, you think. And you are right, my friends. Every man can be defeated. But I am no longer a man." Voldemort's voice had risen with each word and now his voice was strong and bold, echoing within the court. "I have shed the bonds of humanity, I have surpassed the one thing that defeats all men, I have overcome death! I died, killed by my own spell that was thrown back at me. Yes, you hear right. It was not this child that undid me. It was my own magic, deflected by the protection his mother gave him. I vanquished me, destroyed everything but the very core of my being. But from the ashes I rose again, ten-times as powerful as before, no longer a man, no longer mortal. This boy did not defeat me – he gave me true immortality."

Voldemort let silence reign after this last triumphant word. He had impressed every single person in his audience, even the ones he couldn't see. Dumbledore had never denied the fact that Voldemort was a powerful and inspiring leader. It was one of his most dangerous gifts.

"And since he gave me immortality, I will do him the honour of a fast and merciful death," Voldemort finished his speech. "Severus, release him."

Snape pointed his wand at Tom and said quietly: "Finite Incantatem." Then he stepped back from the boy.

Tom raised his head as if he had been released from a spell just now. Dumbledore couldn't see his face since he was standing a few steps behind him, but Voldemort didn't look suspicious.

No one looked at Snape anymore, but Dumbledore saw the man frown and grip his wand tightly. Snape had no idea what would happen now, but the headmaster hoped that he would catch on and help them as soon as they attacked.

Dumbledore observed the Death Eaters who were closest to them. To Voldemort's left he spotted Bellatrix Lestrange with a look of rapt delight on her face, her husband and his brother close behind her. Peter Pettigrew hovered in the shadows from where Voldemort had come, nursing his silver hand. Behind Snape stood Lucius Malfoy and the two men who had come with them. And surrounding them from behind stood dozens more of Voldemort's followers. Some of them would run for cover or flee as soon as there was any sign of trouble. Some were young and inexperienced, but most of them were a serious threat. And above them, all over the castle, Dementors hovered like vultures.

Voldemort still said nothing. His unblinking eyes rested on Tom. The silence stretched longer and longer. Some of the Death Eaters stole uncomfortable glances at each other. Snape looked deathly pale, as if he would lose his composure at any second.

He was reading Tom's mind and Dumbledore was sure he would know that this wasn't Harry. He thought he saw a spark of surprise and recognition on Voldemort's mask-like face. Suddenly Voldemort laughed and pointed his wand at the boy before him and said so softly that barely anyone heard it after the loud laughter: "Avada Kedavra."


	31. Life and Death

_Thanks for reading and reviewing:-)_

**Chapter 31 - Life and Death**

Snape was sure that whatever the headmaster's plan was, it would happen as soon as Voldemort tried to kill Potter.

It couldn't be the real Harry Potter, though. Snape wasn't able to read his mind at all and only the headmaster and the Dark Lord could hide their minds that effectively from him. For some time he had wondered whether it was Dumbledore masquerading as Potter and someone else masquerading as Dumbledore, but this theory was disproved as soon as the Dark Lord uttered the Killing Curse.

The green light hit Potter square in the chest and he collapsed on the ground without even the slightest attempt to defend himself. At exactly the same moment, two other things happened. Voldemort stumbled backwards as if hit by a curse almost as strong as his own, a look of confusion distorting his white face. And from somewhere to Potter's right, someone sent a Patronus into the air. No one could fake a Patronus and the phoenix shape of the silvery magic left no doubt that it was cast by the headmaster.

The Dark Lord swayed, something Snape had never seen before, and everyone else who saw it gasped and was startled. The slit-like pupils of Voldemort's red eyes became wide and unfocused and his gaunt face a mask of death. Was he dying? What could possibly have hit him so hard?

A movement on the ground diverted Snape's attention. No one was even close to Potter, and yet someone had driven a dagger into his chest, right where his heart was. Snape remembered seeing that dagger before, on the Hogwarts Apparition Point, in Aberforth Dumbledore's hands. What was going on?

Someone grabbed his arm and tried to restrain him. "Traitor!" Lucius Malfoy hissed hoarsely. "This time you won't –"

But Lucius didn't finish his sentence as a Stunning Spell from the same direction the Patronus had originated from hit him and he fell to the ground behind Snape. Snape decided that it was time to defend himself, in the absence of any other orders from Dumbledore. He whirled around, turning his back to Potter's body and with the same motion he brandished his wand against the two unsuspecting men behind Lucius and took them out with a powerful Slashing Hex. Around him, all hell was breaking loose within seconds.

The world consisted only of Voldemort and the blinding blaze of pain in his scar. Tom couldn't feel his weakening limbs. He didn't hear the words of Voldemort's triumphant speech. He didn't see the people around them, but Voldemort he saw sharply and brightly. Didn't Voldemort feel his presence? He was looking right into Harry's face. He had to know who stood before him; had to sense that something was wrong.

The tantalizing closeness of his rightful body was breaking Tom apart. He couldn't help it, he would give himself away, but he needed to get closer…

Lord Voldemort broke into a high-pitched laughter and uttered the Killing Curse. Green light flashed from his wand, hitting Tom like a wave of ice, but it didn't hurt like it had when his own curse had rebounded on him. The force of the curse was only the final bit of strength he needed to break the bounds of a body that wasn't his own. All his longing and need dissolved into a glorious sensation of freedom. Clarity and lightness transcending anything he had ever felt flowed through him and he was extending and growing into all directions, until he was infinite in size.

For a small fraction of a second, Tom was dead, his soul severed from Harry's body and yet he was still conscious. Then he felt his own body and Voldemort's essence tugging at him like a vortex. Tom hurled himself towards the source of his pain. His old body welcomed him, dragged him in by digging claws of power into his soul. With the heat and brightness of a hundred suns he clashed with Voldemort's essence. Their essences mingled like melting ice cubes … and suddenly it stopped and they repelled each other like two magnets. But what was started was irreversible; he was back within his own body and bound to it. Only a killing curse could sever them now.

With each passing second he felt heavier and more solid. Until he regained his senses, he only saw blurred shades of grey and black through inhuman eyes and heard the noise of a fighting crowd. The blurred images grew sharper and turned into black-robed people in the grey court of Azkaban. He felt his body sway and he was stumbling but he couldn't yet figure out how to balance himself. It seemed that Voldemort had been thrown back by Tom's attack and was now confused.

Shimmering white light passed through the air above him and took on the form of a silvery bird flapping its wings against the hovering Dementors. Tom recognised it as Dumbledore's Patronus.

"Dumbledore! He's here!"

Tom noticed that none of the Death Eaters reacted to his copy's voice, but then he realised that it had been a mere thought.

This was new as Tom had never been able to hear his copy's thoughts before, at least not that clearly. But other things were different as well. They were repelling each other and there was something that felt like uncomfortable friction between their minds. They had grown into two truly separate and different personalities. Voldemort had become a cursed and twisted unloving creature, as far from being human as he could be, while Tom was infused with the love and protection Harry's mother had given her son. Just like Harry he could resist Voldemort's possession, he could fight him and hurt him with this power the Dark Lord could never understand.

Tom could hear the Dark Lord's racing thoughts as he tried to grasp the situation. Voldemort didn't comprehend yet what happened, he knew that there was something inside him, a powerful presence that was not his own and that felt like Potter's and yet not…

_Have you forgotten me already?_ Tom asked angrily.

_What? What is this? This can't be…!_

_I am the rightful owner of this body and this name. I am the man whose shadow, whose copy you are. Do you know me yet?_

The wordless exchange happened much faster than any spoken dialogue. Through Voldemort's eyes he saw the chaos around them unfolding.

Harry's lifeless body had fallen to the ground. A space of several feet around him was suspiciously vacant, as if defended by an invisible shield and there was a knife sticking out of his chest.

The silvery phoenix cast a flickering brightness onto the gloomy court as it battled the Dementors. A couple of Death Eaters were trying to get to Harry's fallen body, but most of them were still staring at Lord Voldemort who had made several unbalanced steps backwards since he cast the Killing Curse.

_My soul!_ Voldemort's mind howled. _It cannot be, it had been gone for years, gone since I severed it from the rest of me! _

_I was not gone, _Tom replied grimly. _I was there all the time, until the day you tried to murder Harry Potter. And now I have returned to vanquish you. You are a faulty creation of mine, nothing more!_

He felt Voldemort's thoughts racing, but now they were more focused and analytical.

_It has resided within the Potter boy. That is how the connection formed and that is why Potter shared so many of my powers. _

Voldemort looked down at Harry. His eyes raked over the fallen body and stopped at the knife sticking out of his chest. He didn't know its purpose, but he knew that this was a trap. Dumbledore was present and trying to trick him. How did Dumbledore convince the former soul part of him to do this?

_Dumbledore didn't convince me, _Tom said. _I have convinced him that I wanted to be allied with him._

_How can the soul be sentient? It wasn't before it lived inside Potter! How can it be so strong now? _

_Give up. This body is mine. I created you and not the other way round. The creation of you may have weakened me, so when you took control, I could not fight you. But in the last fifteen years I have grown beyond anything you'll ever be. I have the same power that enabled Harry to resist your possession. _

_Maybe you do,_ Voldemort thought calmly, addressing him for the first time. _If so you are human and mortal. I am superior. You have no control over me. _

As if to demonstrate his complete control over their shared body, Voldemort opened his mouth and yelled at his Death Eaters: "It is Dumbledore, you fools! He's tried to trick us! Don't let him escape!"

He flicked his wand at the spot right above Harry's body, intending to cast a Revealing Spell but Tom was ready to battle the copy.

With all his willpower he tried to force the wand down. It was like grappling with slippery hands; every time he thought he had a grip on his body it slipped way from him like the undulating body of a snake. The curse misfired and a blast of fiery light hit one of the Death Eaters trying to get to Harry's body. The man was flung several feet through the air and knocked over a second man before hitting the ground, either dead or unconscious.

In a fit of rage, Voldemort regained full control and slashed his wand through the air like a whip. A curtain of shadows, like a patch of night transported into the day, rushed through the court in front of him. It rippled in the space above and around Harry's body, revealing only for a second the outline of a tall, kneeling man next to Harry's shoulders.

Tom knew it was Aberforth, ready to pull the knife as soon as possible. He had to wait a few moments for the ritual to work, especially under these chaotic conditions. But Voldemort, who couldn't read Tom's mind thought it was Dumbledore and was caught unaware when a curse hit him from his right. Threads of golden light crawled over his body too fast for human eyes to follow. Quickly they wrapped around him like a spider's web at first and then like a golden cocoon, immobilizing him completely.

_Are you sure you're in control? _Tom taunted.

"No, no, no, that won't work, he can't do magic down here, how many times more do I have to tell you?"

"How can we know that? Harry isn't really dead! He could be able to do things that we can't!"

"He doesn't even have a wand!"

"There is plenty of magic he could do without a wand!"

Sirius' and Alphard's argument over what Harry could do to return to the world of the living had been going on for ages. Harry was sitting glumly on the stairs of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and tried not to listen to them. He knew he should be more enthusiastic about getting back into his body, and really, he didn't want to be dead, but he wasn't very eager to leave Sirius, either. When he returned, he would have to face Professor Dumbledore, who would be terribly disappointed in him. How much detention did you get for sneaking out of the school and into the Department of Mystery in order to get yourself almost-killed and sent behind the Veil? And if he knew Dumbledore at all, the old headmaster would not give him detention at all, but merely look very sad and talk to him about choices and responsibility and that was even worse.

The headache he had from thinking about that suddenly hurt much more. It reminded him of the headaches he usually got from his scar aching. He felt overwhelmingly sick to his stomach.

"Hey, Harry! Are you listening to me?" Sirius asked. Harry looked up to see them both staring expectantly at him.

"Uh, what?" he said weakly, before suddenly doubling over in a wave of unexpected pain. It felt like his heart had suddenly burst into a thousand pieces and now life was draining out of him. He was cold, dead, and empty yet aching…

Someone grabbed his shoulder and he realised that he was lying twitching and convulsing on the floor. They tried to hold him down and rolled him over and when they finally succeeded, they both gasped in surprise.

As Harry finally managed to open his eyes, he saw what they were looking at: the ghostly knife was sticking out of his chest again.

Voldemort was still caught in the net of golden filaments and his efforts had turned from the cocoon and fighting around him to battling Tom inside him. Trying to possess and control each other had become a contest of willpower since they were both equal in skill.

_Did you think I'd just surrender this body to you? You cannot win! _

Voldemort was right. This fight wasn't physical and they would never tire. If they wanted to, they could continue for all eternity.

_You cannot win either, _Tom thought, trying to sound calm even though the idea of being caught in an eternal deadlock with his copy scared him immensely.

_But together we could rule the world. Nothing could stop us. There'd be nothing we couldn't do, _Voldemort said and his mind tempted Tom with vivid dreams of what could be.

This vision of power would have appealed to the old Tom, the one who used to despise love. It would be so easy to return to that way of life. Tom understood now that he truly had a choice on how to live the rest of his life. He made a decision.

_You're right, _Tom thought. _There'd be nothing we couldn't do. But we can't rule the same world; you and I. _Tom threw mental images of Hogwarts, of the Burrow, of Harry and his friends back at Voldemort. _A world in which you rule is a world in which Harry can't live. _

_Why do you care about the boy? He's nothing! _Voldemort raged. His hatred and contempt were living things lashing out at Tom's mind.

_Harry is the part of me who will live the life I have thrown away. He is much more who I am, who I have become, than you are. If he lives, I live. There are many great things you and I could do. He'll never do these great things. But he can be happy in a way you could never understand. I may never be that happy again, but I have known and felt what it is like. No great deed, not even immortality can compare with a single day of living that way, loving and being loved, purposeful, happy as the person you are. He can live that way. That is why I care. _

He could not hope to explain to Voldemort who had no soul and no capacity for any of these emotions. Tom had had to live through these feelings in order to understand it himself.

Voldemort's reply was a fit of fury. His mind attacked Tom's like a rabid animal, with no sense or finesse, overwhelming him with brute force. Voldemort regained control and broke the golden cocoon they had been caught in. The sight of the court momentarily distracted them from their struggle.

Still at the centre of all the chaos lay Harry's body, impaled with the knife. A few feet to his right stood Severus Snape, deflecting the curses of at least a dozen Death Eaters who tried to overwhelm him. His black cloak had been torn by a badly aimed hex. His robe was singed and smoking over his left calf, where he was bleeding badly. He was losing the fight but far from giving up.

At Snape's feet lay two bleeding and unconscious Death Eaters and the crumpled form of Lucius Malfoy with his face in the sand.

On the far left of the court, Bellatrix Lestrange was engulfed by a whirlwind of the same sand that had risen from the ground and was attacking her like a sentient creature. The grains of sand were lashing against her skin and she was covered in blood and dirt. Shrieking and cursing she tried to escape, her husband and his brother trying to help her, but none of them had any chance against Dumbledore's magic.

In the air, a slowly weakening Patronus had been joined by a real phoenix. But some of the Dementors had gotten past the two birds and were now closing in on Harry, Snape and Voldemort.

Tom noticed that Professor Dumbledore was still invisible and defending his brother and Harry from the curses that the Death Eaters flung at them. Every now and then, one of them dropped into the sand when a spell that seemingly came from nowhere hit him. It was impossible to tell who would win if Voldemort didn't intervene.

Sirius and Alphard, both kneeling at Harry's sides, stared at the spectre of a knife sticking out of Harry's heart. Harry had been staring, too, but the sight made him dizzy and faint. With a groan he let his head fall back against the wooden floor. Harry had no idea what any of this meant. Was he dying again or was this a signal to go back to the world of the living? He was scared and didn't know what to hope for.

"Is this the knife you told us about, the one used in the ritual?" Alphard asked. He was much calmer than Sirius, who was whispering frantically to Harry, saying his name over and over again. Harry nodded, right before he convulsed in pain. He rolled to his side and Sirius grabbed one of his hands.

"This could be the sign that it is time to return," Alphard informed them.

"Still … don't … know … how," Harry panted.

"Shut up if you can't stop this," Sirius snapped at his uncle. He bent over Harry, stroking his hair. Harry calmed down. The pain was still there but he was terribly weak. Everything was losing substance. It was at once like falling asleep and like waking up.

"I think I'm leaving… going back," he murmured. "Sirius …"

Sirius gripped his hand more tightly, as if he could hold him here by doing so. "Harry. Harry, I'm here. I'll be waiting for you. Don't hurry, alright?"

"I'll come back…" Harry wasn't quite sure if Sirius had heard him, but even as everything else was slipping away, he could hear Sirius' voice one last time.

"We'll meet again. Here or elsewhere."

Dumbledore worked desperately deflecting curses that were aimed at his brother and Harry. Fortunately most of the Death Eaters didn't see Aberforth when he was accidentally revealed, so Dumbledore was able to incapacitate a few Death Eaters as well. But between all this and trying to maintain his Patronus he was tiring and missed something important. Unnoticed by everyone, Wormtail had turned into a rat. The small grey rodent darted over the court, closer to Harry and the Dark Lord. Once or twice he stopped, sniffing the air with quivering whiskers and then he found what he was looking for. Aberforth Dumbledore was hidden by the invisibility cloak, but his scent was easy to follow. When he found the silky fabric of the cloak, Wormtail did one of the unexpectedly clever and risky things he sometimes did – he dug his small teeth into the cloak and ran away, tearing it partly off the kneeling wizard.

"There!" someone yelled. "Another one!"

Two curses were fired, one flashed past Aberforth's grey head and hit the sand some twenty feet behind him, the other one was deflected by a Shield Charm that had to come from his brother.

Lord Voldemort still had enough control over his body to raise his wand. He realised that it was not Dumbledore by Harry's body. Suddenly he knew the significance of the knife sticking out of Potter's chest. He had to act soon to make sure that Harry stayed dead.

But it was too late. When Aberforth noticed that he had been uncovered, he decided that he couldn't risk waiting for the ritual to work any longer. In a swift motion he grabbed the hilt of the knife and pulled. And it was none too early – three other Death Eaters attacked him, and their curses hit him with full force. Without a sound he dropped to the ground.

Tom didn't care. All that counted was that the knife had been pulled. Harry would wake up soon and everything would be ok.

"_But how long would their luck last? "_ Tom thought. Snape, whose skin was sickly pale and clammy from the loss of blood messed up his Shield Charm and was hit by a Reductor Curse and a Choking Hex at once and went down with a painful stifled gasp. Tom had mixed feelings about Snape's defeat.

Dumbledore's invisibility no longer deterred the Dementers and five or more of them crowded around a seemingly empty spot.

Harry lay still and showed no signs of waking. Cold panic gripped Tom's soul. If this didn't work they lost the gamble on their only chance to get Harry back into his body. If Harry's soul didn't return now, he was dead, the ritual could not be repeated once the body had truly died, which it would without a soul or the knife in its chest.

Tom knew that if Harry died, he had lost, no matter what else happened. He had fought Voldemort only for Harry…

Harry showed no signs of movement.

Never in his life had Tom wanted anything so badly as he now wanted Harry to live. He felt tears on his inhuman face. He didn't care what happened to him or the world or anything in it. He seemed to exist only through his despair and his need, his burning, all-consuming need for Harry to live.

But Harry wasn't waking up.

Voldemort was losing the complete control over his body now that Tom's raw emotions were breaking down all of the Dark Lord's defences - the very same ones that Tom travelled over the world to perfect. These defences against all kinds of magic dark and light didn't work against the simple emotion of grief at the death of a loved one. Voldemort was now dying inside him, his soulless essence breaking apart and being reabsorbed by Tom's essence from which it had been made. But the destruction of Voldemort did not make him happy or even satisfied. He would not even miss his copy certainly no more than he would miss his Astronomy notes from first year. Tom felt that life had no meaning. Harry was dead, regardless of what happened to Voldemort.

Tom knew he didn't have the happiness to conjure a Patronus. He was certain that he would never be happy again. But being the Dark Lord did have a few advantages.

"Leave!" he commanded the Dementors, blasting a few of them away from Dumbledore with a swing of his wand. It was so easy but it was way too late to mean anything. The headmaster's invisibility had flickered and faded while he fought the Dementors and when they backed off he became completely visible, his eyes resting tensely on Tom.

The Death Eaters who were attacking Dumbledore in the hopes of killing or Stunning him stopped as soon as they heard their master's order. "All of you, leave!" he said in a tone promising death at the slightest disobedience. Those who were still on their feet backed off like the cowed minions they were, leaving behind only those who were dead or unconscious or otherwise unable to move.

Dumbledore didn't budge, his wand still half raised and his blue eyes concerned. He looked dishevelled and Tom could tell that he was exhausted.

Dumbledore hadn't saved Harry, but Tom didn't have the energy to be angry. He hadn't saved Harry either, had he?

"Tom?" Dumbledore asked as soon as they were alone. His voice echoed strangely between the high walls of the prison around them. With the bodies strewn all around it them it looked like the remnants of a battlefield. Fawkes landed on the ground, crooning softly.

"You failed," Tom said. He turned away from Dumbledore and walked over to Harry's dead body. The scar that had been so prominent on his forehead was gone as if it had never existed and gone with it was the bond they had shared. "We failed."

"I lost," he said numbly. Everything inside him was quiet and tired. "And I won. It's all the same…"

The words just came out of his mouth because they were true, not because they had any meaning.

Dumbledore came over to him, close enough to touch Tom, but he didn't. Instead he looked down where Tom was looking. Harry looked like he was sleeping. Then Tom suddenly felt ill and weak and his tall, gaunt, strange body gave away and he was on his knees. His fingers looked thin and white like bones around Harry's arm. In that moment, death seemed like mercy to him. He wanted to be with Harry, to forget that he ever existed.

Dumbledore's hands were on his shoulders in a second, the old wizard crouching next to him on the ground.

"Tom. Tom, listen to me. Harry is – are you listening to me?"

"'s not fair," Tom murmured. "I'd die to save him! I vanquished the Dark Lord! Why can't I save Harry?"

Dumbledore lowered his eyes wearily. His silence was resigned and apologetic. He had no answer for Tom's question and no words to soothe him.

Tom loosened his grip on Harry's arm in defeat, wanting nothing more than to lie down next to him and close his eyes.

And then he realised that his fingers were touching warm skin and a pulse was beating faintly.


	32. Face To Face & Epilogue

_This is it- the last chapter, the end. It took more than half a year to write this and it's the longest piece of fiction I've ever written. I've never put so much effort (planning, writing, betaing...) into a fic and I learned more about writing than ever before.It didn't get as good as I wanted it to be, it's flawed in many places,but I still like it. The characters have grown on me, especially those who don't get as much attention in canon as they did in my fic. _

_Thank you for reviewing!_

_

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to rambkowalczyk, my beta. Without her this story wouldn't exist. _

**Chapter 32 - Face to Face**

Harry's lips tasted salty, like seawater. He was cold and there was wet sand clinging to his arms and the back of his neck. His head was fuzzy and his legs still numb. Something was touching his right upper arm.

But nothing hurt. His scar didn't hurt and his head didn't hurt and his body was alive and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He breathed.

Although there was no pain, he felt strange. It was as if his body had become taller than it used to be, as if there was more space inside his head, as if he was missing something essential.

There was a rustle of cloth near him and the cold touch on his arm went away.

He opened his eyes. What he saw made no sense: blurry grey shapes at a great distance above him. At first he thought they were smoke and wondered where all that smoke came from in the Ministry. Was there a fire? But then he realised that he wasn't in a room anymore, he was outside, somewhere where the air smelled of saltwater and ashes and where a cloudy sky loomed above him. It wasn't a good place.

He turned his head. Moving was much harder than it should have been. He was weak as a kitten and even though he wore his glasses, his sight was badly blurred. He thought he saw a long stretch of dirty ground and a dark stone wall rising high into the air and a lump of something black – clothes? – lying a few steps away.

Harry turned his head into the other direction. Someone was kneeling there, half bent over him and he instantly recognized the long white hair and beard of Professor Dumbledore.

A few steps behind Dumbledore stood someone else, tall and clad in black, a bone-white face framed by the black hood of a cloak. Harry blinked, sure that he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing. He wanted to warn Dumbledore, but then the hooded figure averted its face, turned around, retreating quickly.

Dumbledore's touch on his forehead brought Harry back to reality. If Dumbledore was so calm, everything was alright and this couldn't have been Voldemort standing behind Dumbledore.

"Harry, can you hear me?" the Professor asked gently.

Harry's sandpaper-dry throat turned his reply into a hoarse wheeze. He nodded instead. Dumbledore smiled. Harry thought he looked exhausted, there was a smear of something grey over his left cheek, right under the golden wire of his glasses, but the smile was brighter and happier than anything he had ever seen on the headmaster's face. Something extraordinarily good must have happened. Harry returned it weakly.

Dumbledore conjured a glass of water and held it to Harry's lips so he could drink. He instantly felt much stronger. "Thanks," he croaked.

Dumbledore helped him sit up. Harry noticed a number of things: he was in a place where he'd never been before. It looked like the inner court of an especially dark and dreary fortress. The ground around him was strewn with bodies; almost all of them clad in black Death Eater robes. But closest to him lay the crumpled form of Dumbledore's brother Aberforth. Fawkes was next to him, glowing magnificently red and gold.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore's smile didn't waver. "I'm sure you want to know everything, but that can wait. Right now all that's important is that you are alive, Harry, and Lord Voldemort has been defeated."

There was simply nothing Harry could say. Dumbledore didn't look like he expected him to answer. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around Harry's shoulders, then he got up and checked his brother.

"Nothing Poppy can't cure," he said cheerily and then walked over to another group of fallen bodies. Someone had bled a lot in the sand over there. Only when Professor Dumbledore very carefully turned around one of the cloaked men, Harry realised that it was Snape. Every part of his body was covered in blood and Harry couldn't tell if he was still alive. Dumbledore no longer smiled. Fawkes hopped over to rub his head against his master's hand, chirping sadly.

"Is he – is he dead?" Harry asked with wide-eyes .

Dumbledore gravely shook his head. "He lives, but barely. I don't know whether he can be saved." He moved his wand in a half-circle above Snape and an orb of shimmering bluish light settled on the fallen wizard. "This will suspend his vital functions until we can get help, but I can't do much more for him."

"Where are we?"

"Azkaban," Dumbledore replied, looking around. Then he took a piece of parchment from a pocket in his robes and tapped his wand onto it. Fawkes flapped his wings and gracefully landed on Dumbledore's outstretched arm, taking the parchment into his beak. "Minerva, Poppy and then the rest of the order," Dumbledore said to the bird. Fawkes vanished in a burst of flame.

Dumbledore started walking around the court and putting Binding Spells on the Death Eaters who weren't dead. It was eerily quiet except for his steps and the sound of the sea beyond the walls of the prison. When the headmaster returned, Harry asked another urgent question.

"There was someone else here when I woke up. He looked like –"

"Like Voldemort, yes," Dumbledore said gravely. "I'll clarify things as soon as we get this sorted out. Perhaps he will return and explain some things himself."

What was that supposed to mean? Wasn't Voldemort vanquished?

"Why did he leave?"

"I think he was aware that his looks might be a bit shocking to you," Dumbledore replied mildly. "And he was afraid of your reaction to some of the things you'll be finding out about soon."

Not much later dozens of wizards and witches from the Ministry arrived. Dumbledore had to make sure that the surviving Death Eaters were arrested and Harry couldn't ask any other questions. Then suddenly there were reporters from the Daily Prophet who tried to take pictures and interview Harry and anyone else who looked like they might tell them anything. Already there were rumours about Voldemort's final defeat by the Boy Who Lived. He was saved by Remus Lupin, who came with Tonks and Moody and led Harry away from all the people. Remus asked some questions as well but Harry could answer none of them since he didn't know what had happened during the last few days. He didn't even know how long he had been gone! But Remus told him it didn't matter as long as Harry was okay.

Remus brought Harry to Professor McGonagall who looked like she was ready to have a heart attack. She was cursing Dumbledore and the Ministry under her breath and at the same time she had a strange gleam in her eyes as if she wanted to cry or laugh or both. When Dumbledore came into sight, she hurried over to him, seized him by the sleeve of his robe and Harry could hear her say: "Is it true? Is it really over this time?"

Dumbledore's eyes fell on Harry for a second and then he looked back at her. "The war is over, Minerva. Now if you could be so kind and take care of this mess? I have to have a word or two with Harry."

Remus came along with them as they left Azkaban. They went by boat and Harry got a short glimpse of the whole fortress before it vanished behind a cloak of mist. He thought of Sirius. His memories from the time behind the Veil were getting faint already, like a dream paling in the light of day. But Sirius' promise that they would meet again had settled deep into his heart. He knew he would never forget these words until the day he died.

From the shore they Apparated and Remus accompanied them up to the stone gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office. There he shared a silent look with Dumbledore and then smiled at Harry. "See you later. I'll go and tell Ron and Hermione the good news."

They rose on the stairs to the office and as he opened the door, Dumbledore said to Harry: "Now finally there is time to explain everything to you over a cup of tea –"

But Harry had stopped dead in his tracks. His hand shot to his wand. Dumbledore turned his head to see what he was looking at.

In front of the windows behind Dumbledore's desk, dark against the warm afternoon light, stood Lord Voldemort. His black hood was drawn and he watched them calmly.

Dumbledore put his hand on Harry's shoulder and made him lower his wand. "It's alright, Harry. Tom is not here to harm you. In fact it was he who saved your life." He led Harry into the office and the door fell shut behind them.

"It's Lord Voldemort," Harry protested, staring transfixed at the Dark Lord. Voldemort was not carrying his wand; his white hands lay on the backrest of Dumbledore's chair. He, too, was not taking his red eyes off Harry.

"I'd prefer to be called Tom," he said softly.

"You said Voldemort was gone!" Harry exclaimed. This was too much; his mind couldn't comprehend what happened. Had he gone mad? Did Dumbledore really just say that Voldemort had saved his life?

"He is gone," Dumbledore confirmed. "This isn't the Lord Voldemort you have met before. This is Tom Riddle, the man who created Lord Voldemort twenty-seven years ago as his alter ego. I would introduce you, but you have met before."

Voldemort – or Tom Riddle, but Harry wasn't yet able to think of him as that – nodded.

"But you told me that Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort! You told me so after I defeated the Tom Riddle from the diary! You called him Tom when you fought him in the Ministry!"

"I know, Harry. For long years I believed it to be true, but I was mistaken. Perhaps you would care to explain, Tom?" the headmaster said smoothly.

Voldemort took a long moment before he began to speak. His voice was the same voice Harry remembered from the graveyard and the Ministry, high and thin and not entirely human but his tone had changed. The menace and arrogance were gone. Something about the fall and rise of this voice was strangely familiar to Harry, as if he had known it all his life. It was almost soothing.

"You have met my sixteen-year-old self before, Harry. You know what I was like when I grew up. I was a fool who knew nothing about the truly important things in life, whose sole goal was to achieve power and immortality. I misspent my life on these empty desires and in my quest for immortality, I turned myself, my body and essence, into the thing you see now."

His last words were wistful and laced with disgust. "I know what I look like through your eyes," he added.

"How could _you_ know that?" Harry asked angrily. But at the same time the tone in which Voldemort had said it scared him. What was he hinting at?

"Because I've seen this body through your eyes and from your perspective and I agree with you. You see, it wasn't enough for me to create a body that was almost indestructible. I had to make sure that my mind would prevail as well. I tried to get rid of my human soul, thinking it would make me immortal. But instead I created a duplicate of myself, Voldemort, equal to me in all aspects, except for a human soul, which he lacked. Voldemort took over my body while I was caught helplessly inside my own body for years until it was destroyed by the curse that was meant to kill you."

"Are you saying that you're innocent? That all the people you murdered – that it was a monster you created that you had no control over?" Harry shouted. He couldn't believe that Dumbledore was still listening to this. "THAT'S A LIE!"

Voldemort laughed mirthlessly. "Innocent? Not at all. Don't forget I killed long before I became the Dark Lord. I was responsible for Myrtle's death, and I killed my father's family when I was about as old as you're now. In the years that followed I killed many more. It was the murder of my friend Alphard that should have completed my immortality."

Harry didn't doubt for a second that Voldemort's friend was the same Alphard he had met behind the Veil. So that was why Alphard was so interested in the Dark Lord and so well informed about him!

"But my responsibility doesn't end there," Voldemort went on. "It may not have been me who became the Dark Lord, but Voldemort was my copy in every aspect but the soul. What he did I would have done, so in the end it makes no difference which one of us did those things. It wasn't I who killed your parents… but had I been in his place, _I would have done the same_."

Voldemort hadn't once averted his eyes while he said this, but then he looked down as if it pained him to look at Harry, who stared at him with wide eyes. This was Voldemort, who had tried to kill him so many times, who knew no mercy and no compassion, whose cold wrath and hatred Harry had felt through the connection in his scar … but if it had been anyone else Harry would have believed that his confession was honest. Even so Harry's doubts wavered. Wouldn't Dumbledore know if Voldemort was lying?

"I'm sorry. I wish I had never killed your parents. If there was anything, anything at all I could do to undo these murders, I would do it. But I can't. All I can do is to say I am sorry. I regret it more than anything in my life."

Harry clenched his hands into fists. Every muscle in his body felt unbelievably tight. "But why? Why are you sorry now?"

"Because they deserved to live. Because they loved you and their love saved your life and mine. Because they should have been there for you all those years. Because I miss them as much as you do."

Harry shook his head, afraid to hear what else Riddle had to say. He was starting to anticipate what would come and it terrified him because there was no reason why he should know what Riddle would say. "No," he breathed. "Stop it."

"That night when Voldemort went to your house to kill you, his own curse rebounded on him and destroyed his body. He continued to exist as the soulless bodiless creature you have seen. But I, my soul and my memories were transferred into your body. I was overwhelmed by this, cleansed by the love that was written in your very blood from your mother's sacrifice. I forgot who I was. Fifteen years I spent in your body, living your life, thinking I was you.

"I shared every single one of your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams and fears. I have lived your life together with you. When I look at you now I see myself as I should have been during my own life. You gave me a second childhood; you taught me love and friendship.

When your soul left your body to travel through the Veil, I was left behind in your body. Once the knife was removed, I woke up. Soon I started to remember bits and pieces of my own life, the past I had forgotten for so long. I was horrified! You have to imagine: I believed I was you and suddenly I learned that I was Tom Riddle, I was Lord Voldemort!"

Harry could imagine only too well what it must have been like for Riddle, because he was just as horrified by the revelation that he had shared his body with Voldemort all those years. He couldn't deny it though, because it explained all the similarities between them, all the powers they shared, everything. It even explained why he had felt so exposed and lonely ever since he no longer shared a body with Riddle. But did that mean that he missed Riddle's soul …?

Voldemort sighed. "That is why I am sorry for everything I did. Because I thought they were my parents and in a way I still think of them that way. I know I have no right to love your parents or your friends, Harry, but I love you. That's the reason why I had to destroy Voldemort: to protect you."

"_You _did it?" Harry asked wonderingly. "You destroyed him?"

"That is why Tom is wearing his old body now. He came up with the plan that not only destroyed Voldemort, but made it possible to return you to your body and capture almost all of the Death Eaters. Thank you for that, by the way, I believe that the Aurors would have had a much harder time if you hadn't stopped them from fleeing." Dumbledore said with a bright smile and twinkling eyes. Unlike Harry, he seemed extremely pleased with the outcome.

"What about the prophecy?" Harry wanted to know. It was getting easier to breathe and his heart was beating less quickly.

"It is fulfilled," Riddle said in a very decisive voice. "The Dark Lord has been vanquished. I destroyed him, but you enabled me."

Silence reigned. Dumbledore walked to the fireplace and lit a fire, turning his back on both of them. They didn't need the fire at all, since it was in the middle of summer, so he probably wanted to give them privacy. Harry was still too shocked and confused to feel relieved. He couldn't help but stare at Tom Riddle though. It was disconcerting to know that Riddle knew everything about him while there was so little Harry knew about him.

"Did you meet Sirius?" Tom suddenly inquired, taking Harry by surprise.

Harry had almost forgotten his adventures behind the Veil. But Riddle sounded as if he truly cared. Dumbledore hadn't even asked him that much. It was impossible for Harry to think of this man as Voldemort. Voldemort was a monster, cruel and evil. Harry didn't yet know who Tom Riddle truly was, but he was someone else and he had destroyed Voldemort for Harry and he cared for Sirius. In Harry's opinion that counted more than what Riddle looked like or what he had done in the past. It wasn't enough to forgive him, but it made it impossible to hate him.

"Yes," Harry said. "I met him. It's a very strange place… but he's alright, I guess." He was unable to explain more clearly, but he remembered something else. "He's with his uncle, Alphard."

Riddle blinked and then he smiled. "I really was a fool to be so afraid of death, wasn't I?" He murmured to himself.

Another awkward pause followed. Harry felt compelled to say something. "So, you're not, um, going to try and become a Dark Lord again? What are you going to do?"

Tom didn't answer at once, maybe because he didn't know it himself, but Dumbledore threw a handful Floo Powder into the fire, colouring it bright green.

"I suggest you leave. We're not going to be alone for much longer and while there is a time to face the law, this is not it. It'll be hard enough to convince the Ministry not to sentence your followers to the Dementor's Kiss, but in your case my persuasive abilities might not be enough," Dumbledore said gravely.

Tom nodded and went to the fire. Before he gave a destination, he looked at Harry one last time.

"There's still a lot I'd like to say," he said. "You needn't answer my letters and if you don't want me to return, you will never meet me again. But as long as I live, I will protect you."

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he called out a foreign sounding destination and stepped into the green flames. In a whirl of fire and soot he was gone.

The fire became normal again but Harry still stared at it for a long moment.

"He's not evil anymore," he said and it was only half a question.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk with a sigh. "No, he isn't. I believe Tom isn't even quite the same person he once was. His choices have shown that. You needn't forgive him, but you should try to understand him.

"But forget it for a few days. Go to your friends and tell them that the war is over. I'm sure they'll be delighted to finally leave school."

**Epilogue **

And so he did. Harry returned with Ron, Ginny and Hermione to the Burrow where for the first time in his life he had a really great birthday. For weeks, everyone seemed to celebrate. A wild variety of people visited them all the time.

Dumbledore was still negotiating with the new Minister of Magic. Arthur Weasley told them that Amelia Bones was much more likely than Fudge to quit the Ministry's alliance with the Dementors and close Azkaban. A new prison would be installed and new laws against the use of the Dementor's Kiss as capital punishment would be written. Hermione was extremely impressed by the new Minister and suddenly considered a career in the Ministry.

Of course the newspapers annoyed everyone in the Weasley family trying to get an interview from Harry since they believed him to be the one who defeated Voldemort. He never told them the whole story, he only said: "I didn't do anything – I wasn't even there." Disappointed, they started to just invent stories. Harry accepted his fate and let them write what they wanted.

The only ones who he told the full truth were Ron and Hermione. He originally feared their reaction to being told that he had shared his body with Tom Riddle's soul for all his life. But then he remembered they had reacted much better to the prophecy than he originally thought. Also he reminded himself - Riddle's soul was gone now. Still, it was more awkward this time and involved a lot of staring from Ron and penetrating questions from Hermione.

After two days of this annoying behaviour, he lost his patience and shouted at them: "Just forget it, okay? I'm only Harry now. Not a piece of Riddle left." This seemed to break the tension and it appeared as though things were returning to normal.

Once, on a quiet evening when Ron had to help his mother cleaning, he asked Hermione a question that was still bugging him: "Have I changed since, you know - ?"

She looked critically at him, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips like Aunt Petunia did when she observed the neighbours garden. "You laugh more and worry less, but everyone does that these days. You don't shout as much, which I'm very glad about." She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Your scar's gone."

But everything else was still the same. He was Harry, with or without Riddle's soul, and that was good.

He didn't feel too small for his body anymore. Only once or twice he had that dream again, where he was walking over a huge empty plain, sinking knee-deep into snow and ashes on the ground. In those dreams he was no longer carrying a bright light with him, but each time before he woke up he reached firmer ground where the plain ended.

Sometimes, when Harry woke up late at night, thinking that it all was a dream and that something so good couldn't have happened to him, he stole out of his room (they had given him the twin's room at the Burrow) and into the bathroom. There he looked at his face in the mirror and his smooth forehead, which showed no traces of any scar. It was undeniable proof that it was all true, that Voldemort was gone and Harry was free.

Four weeks after Voldemort's defeat, he was staying up late into the night, reading the book Hermione had given him for his birthday, when a huge colourful bird landed on his windowsill, carrying a roll of parchment.

Harry knew whom the letter had to be from before he opened it. Since their short meeting in Dumbledore's office he had not heard from Riddle. Harry wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but he was getting more curious with every day. What was Riddle doing? Over the last few weeks, a number of escaped Death Eaters and supporters of Voldemort had been caught in remote hideouts and delivered to the Ministry. Kingsley Shacklebolt had told Harry that no one knew who captured those Death Eaters but whoever it was always included undeniable proof of their crimes. There was a lot of wild speculation on the identity of the Ministry's mysterious benefactor. Harry had a strong suspicion that it was Tom Riddle, hunting down his own followers.

The handwriting on the parchment was familiar and yet new: it wasa fusion ofhis own sloppy scrawl and the elegant letters in Tom Riddle's diary.

"_Dear Harry,_

_Dumbledore tells me you are well and I am sure you are, considering how everything turned out._

_I am far from Britain and will not return for a while and if you have been following the news, you know that I have been busy._

_You need not answer this letter, and if you do not, I will not send you another one. But if you ever have questions or want to tell me something, anything, I will be glad to hear from you._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Tom Riddle."_

Harry looked at the pretty, colourful bird and suddenly he was reminded of the time after his third year, when Sirius had been on the run and his letters from faraway countries had been delivered by birds like this one. He smiled.

He wasn't sure yet what he would write but he knew he would send an answer.

_The End. _


End file.
